


Sinews

by Paranoixa



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), superior spiderman
Genre: Dramatic Getaway Scenes, F/M, Loss of Control, Memories, Possession, Pre-Relationship, Sleep Deprivation, The Rape/non-con scene's actually a thwarted roofie and kidnapping but just in case, possible triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-07-11 13:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15973595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paranoixa/pseuds/Paranoixa
Summary: They're bound, bound in body, bound by mind, and, to his revulsion, bound through heart. They're sharing molecules and memories and finding sympathy where there was once abhorrence. Interconnected down to their very sinews, Peter will have to take on his greatest enemy in his mind, where morals and actions are stripped down to their very foundations.. . ."The room falls silent. For a moment, the only sign of life in the entire apartment is the ragged breathing from Peter’s chest; he feels wound up, stretched thin, and compressed all at once. It reminds him of life before Spiderman, back when things like asthma attacks were still an issue. And for all the fear and pain they caused, he can’t help but yearn for them. He wants to feel scared, he wants to feel something, but he’s just so tired.He just wants to sleep."





	1. What Are You Hiding, Peter?

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, hey, hey, guys. Been gone a minute, but Imma be back for another. I've been working on this fic for a little over a month now, and, after a tug o war with Writer's Block, I've finally got enough written to be able to post on a regular schedule. I am so excited about this cause it's been sitting in my "prompts" doc for a few months now, and it's finally realized. I am so proud of this one, you guys, you have no idea.  
> But enough of my rambling. Pete's possessed, Tony's confused, and MJ's just flailing about like a queen. It's time to get into the story...

It starts as a feeling.

Not unlike being in a fully occupied elevator, it greets him in the night, afflicting him with a brief state of paralysis before vanishing. Peter, in his sleep-addled condition, writes the episode off as a mere result of sleep deprivation. Come sun up, the event's all but forgotten, and the sense that he's being shadowed is perceived as fatigue-induced paranoia.

. . .

Returning to school after an "epic" battle is always difficult. Sliding into his civilian clothes, adorning a human skin, carrying out a non-life-threatening schedule, it's all so very mundane compared to the life he's created.

And not to mention disjointing. When Cindy's pencil pouch falls off her desk during Home Economics, Peter's fingers flex on instinct, shifting into position as they prepare to launch a wad of webbing. He catches himself, of course, instead watching as the pouch tumbles over and vomits a plethora of color pencils, pens, and highlighters. Cindy gathers her things, her face flush with embarrassment, and class continues on as normal. Life is normal.

Later on, the clang of pure metal will meet Peter's ears; his legs jerk, eager to propel his body onto the table, across the room, and in the direction of the sound. But it's just Gwen who's dropped her tray on the floor, so, again, there's no real trouble.

By the time Woodshop rolls around, Peter's almost desperate for something to do, every molecule thrumming with unspent energy. Because if something were to happen, it would happen in Shop, right? Right?  
No. Because contrary to popular belief, not everyone who takes Shop is a distracted, incompetent halfwit. Class passes without incident, and Peter finds himself severely disappointed that no one's lost a finger.

At the thought, the phantom presence of fingers materializes upon his neck and brushes aside several tufts of hair. Peter swats the hand away, turning around to glare at the person, only to blank when he discovers the table behind him is empty.

Ned glances up from his boat, takes note of Peter's befuddled expression, and cocks his head to the side. "Peter?" When he receives no response, he reaches forward and waves a hand in front of his face, sighing when Peter finally acknowledges him. "Jeez, you keep doing that. What's with you today?"  
Peter blinks, gives the unoccupied table one last look, then turns back around. His hands return to the wooden block before him, and he mutters, "Nothing. Just thought I felt something." The sound of something whirring to life draws a poorly concealed jump from him; he leans forward, his hand absentmindedly reaching for Ned, and scans the room until he places the sound with a power saw at the table beside them. Peter deflates, withdrawing his hand to his chest, and sighs.

"Are you all right", Ned questions as he blocks the saw with his head. "You seem kind of...squirrely." He draws closer, lowers his voice, and whispers, "Is it about the Octopus guy?"

Peter winces, so Ned leans back, returning his attention back to his wooden boat. "You said you didn't want to talk about it-"  
"I did."  
"And, you know, I get that, but it might maybe help if you did talk about it. Even if it's just to yourself." Dragging a finger along the sail of the bow, he hums to himself and nods; he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a pen, and begins to write his name along the hull of the boat.

"I'm fine, Ned." Peter picks his block off the table and stares, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. "It's just...hard. Having a weekend like that and coming back Monday to deal with things like exams and dodgeball is like the world's worst case of whiplash ever."  
Pausing in his writing, Ned looks up at Peter. "You could take the day off. Mr. Shroud never does attendance anyway."  
Peter shakes his head. "No", he says, placing his block back onto the table. "I need something to do. I spent all day yesterday just walking around our apartment 'til Aunt May made me help her prep meals for the next two weeks."  
"Well, I could always come over. I found an antique comic book of Godzilla vs Superman at a thrift shop yesterday."  
His lips quirk upwards. He leans onto the table, runs several fingers through his hair, and laughs for what seems like the first time in centuries. "Ned, that sounds horrible. Why would you pay for that?"  
"So we could laugh at it. Duh." He elbows Peter in the arm and raises his eyebrows. "How about it?"  
Blinking lazily, Peter gives him a full smile and nods. The bell above them rings, and they scramble to tidy up their work station. Throughout the clean up, Peter finds his spirits lifted, losing himself in Ned's words as they discuss the absurdity of pinning a giant lizard against an overpowered Ken doll. He does, at one point, lose feeling in his left arm. Aside from that, though, the rest of the day passes without event.

. . .

Sleep is an evasive creature, darting out of sight like a startled rabbit each time he draws too close to it. Just when Peter thinks he's won, something pricks the inside of his brain and jolts him back into consciousness. It's an exhausting game, and the outcome merits little reward.

On the off chance that he does get some sleep, Peter finds himself plagued with nightmares. Many are of his battle with Doctor Octopus, but there are others that he can't even begin to comprehend; visions of angry, red metal, lab coats, and shattered glass play behind his eyelids in such a frenzied array that when he awakes, it's to a stormy stomach.

After several days of terror, Peter forgoes sleeping; when he returns from his night out, instead of crawling into bed, he sits at his desk and writes. It's nothing specific, though the Doc's death and the resulting nightmares are a common theme. Oddly enough, Peter draws a sort of comfort from the writing, even if most of it is nonsense.

He fills in several pages of stilted words, then proceeds to fold his clothes, trashes the cans of Monster littering his room, and studies for an upcoming exam in World History. Then, drumming his fingers against his cheek, Peter leaps into the air and tugs on the cord extending from the ceiling. His suit falls from the attic, and he smiles, staring with displaced glee as he traces his fingers over the latex fabric.

He's about to slither into the suit, ready to take on who the fuck knows, when his phone pulses in his pocket. Peter takes it out and glares: sixty forty-five.

School.

All at once, he finds his surge in energy depleted and has to firmly grasp the back of his chair to keep himself upright. His morning routine seems two times as arduous, but he does it nonetheless. The impact of a week with little sleep catches up to him once he reaches the train station. But by then, the day's already begun, and there's no time for sleep.

. . .

"Hey. Hey Peter."

Peter blinks, looks up from his computer, and cranes his neck to the right. MJ's sitting on a desk in the front row, sketchbook in hand, as she considers him with squinted eyes. He rubs his knuckles into the corner of his eye, yawns, and withdraws his hands from his keyboard. "MJ", he says with a taut smile. "What's up?"

Gnawing on the side of her pencil, MJ flicks her eyes to her watch, then says, "It's fifteen minutes past the bell. School's over."  
"Oh." His neck and face blossom with color, and he chuckles, shaking his head at himself. "I must have been distracted."

"Right." MJ leaps off her desk, drops her book into her bag, and stops beside his desk. Eyebrows raised, she jerks her head to the blank screen and asks, "Are you okay?"

"Yes, yes, yes, I'm fine." He wipes his hands over his face and groans. "I'm just a little sleepy."  
"Understatement of the year, Pete. You look like shit on a brick."

"You're no winner either, Racoon Eyes."  
"At least I don't have eye boogers." MJ pulls a chair up beside him and drops her elbows onto the back of it. The humor slowly vacating her eyes, she scratches the back of her neck and clears her throat. "You've been kinda quiet this week."  
Pete gives her a mordant smile and nods. "Bad weekend."

MJ purses her lips and averts her eyes to the frills of her skirt; she tugs at the fabric, tucking her face into her shoulder, and hums to herself before lifting her eyes once more. "You know, uh, Ned and I were talking", she begins.

"Uh huh."

"Well, it was more Ned's idea than mine, he found out about it on some forum apparently. But there's this laboratory." MJ smiles, one hand still fiddling with her skirt, and raises a hand to brush a curl behind her ear. "It was pretty big in the early twentieth century but kind of died out when they were exposed for kidnapping their subjects for experiments. That or there was a pretty big fire that killed some renowned scientist or something. The backstory's kinda weird. Anyway, it's got a shady past, and it's supposedly haunted. And, normally, I kinda avoid shit like this, but Ned said it's something you'd probably like and uh...well, I, we just wanted to know if you'd wanna come along. With us."

For but a second, Peter loses all feeling in body. Before he can question it, the numbness fades, and everything resumes functioning; he focuses on the feeling of blood coursing through his veins, then turns to MJ. MJ, who's staring at him in the way she always does when she thinks he isn't looking. "Not like-not like a date, though, right?"  
Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head. "What? No, of course not. I mean, that'd be weird. Like, so fucking weird."  
"Yeah, totally. Like trippy weird."  
"Exactly." MJ clears her throat, rocks back and forward on her heels and giggles unevenly. "I mean, that's not to say that us dating isn't a conceivable idea or anything", she says, sparing him a brief glance. "Anyway, uh, so the lab. Next Saturday, six o'clock. We were thinking, Pizza Hut and White Castle milkshakes?"  
Peter smiles. "That's a really weird combination", he tells her.

MJ gives his shoulder a light shove and snorts. "You only say that cause you've never tried it before."

"No, I only say that cause I respect my stomach."

"Come on, Pete, you're young. This is the time to fuck up your body."  
He rolls his eyes. He shakes his mouse on the desk and signs out of his Google account. Once that's done, he powers off the computer and bites his lip. "So it's just us three", he asks, looking up at her. "No chaperones-"  
"Oh, God, no. But, uh, Cindy'll be there, too."  
"Cindy?" Peter raises his eyebrows. "You know Ned's got a thing for her?"  
"From the way she talks about him, I think the feeling's mutual." She taps her fingers against his desk, then gives him a pointed look. "So? You in or do we have to kidnap you from your lair?"  
Peter rolls his eyes. Scooping his backpack off the ground, he rises to his feet and nods. "Yeah", he says with an easy smile. "I gotta check in with my Aunt May, but I don't think I have any other plans that day."  
"All right. Awesome." She smiles to the floor, steps aside to let him out of his aisle, and walks with him out of the class. "Can I walk you to your locker?"  
As he's replying, something cold and familiar washes over him; he frowns, darts his eyes around the hall, then turns back to the classroom. When he finds nothing to be out of sort, his scowl deepens; his gives the hallway another lookover, his hands clenched at his sides, and waits for…

Something.

"Peter?" MJ places a hand on his shoulder, quickly withdrawing when he flinches and jumps back. She tugs her hands into her armpits and takes a steps back herself. "Sorry."  
"No, no, it's fine. I-" He narrows his eyes, tightens his grip on his shoulder strap, then walks back towards her. "MJ", he asks, still surveying the halls.

"Yeah?"  
"How do you feel Starbacks?"  
MJ raises her eyebrows. "I think their coffee tastes like ass. And the nearest one is, like, three blocks away." She then frowns and extends her neck towards him.  
Peter turns to face her and laughs airily. "Perfect." Without another word, he snatches her hand and leads her out of the building.


	2. Monster in the Penthouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter goes to work and later gets a surprise visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Heads up, this is the bit with the roofies and attempted rape. Please skip over this if this is a trigger for you).   
> Guys, the response I'm getting is so much more than I imagined. Like, we nearly hit five hundred hits in just a few days. I know that ain't a lot in the grand scheme of themes, but it's a lot for me, so I'm counting it as a win.  
> Seriously, though, thank you for the support. I was worried people wouldn't like or care about this, so it's amazing to see this big of a response.  
> Anyhoosies. Me, rambling, you anxiously awaiting the update. Let's.

Stepping into the suit sends an electrical current up his spine. Before he can even finish shuddering, he's already sliding his mask on and poking his head out his window. It's a quarter to eleven, a little earlier than his usual departing time. He's running on sugar and nerves, and after a battle like week's, he should probably be seeing someone. He should probably be seeing his bed. But the night's calling to him. And soon enough, Peter finds himself swinging between buildings and skittering through narrow alleys.

"Man, I so needed this", he giggles, sliding against the wet pavement. When he comes to a stop, he inhales, claps his hands together, and tilts his head back. The alley is illuminated by a single street light overhead, casting a sickly yellow shadow over the ground; the light captures the frantic dancing of raindrops, tinting the water so that it looks like piss is falling from the sky.

"How poetic", he murmurs before the clatter of a trash can captures his attention. He leaps onto the side of a building and scales the wall, watching as a figure in black leads a stumbling woman around the corner. Peter hums, sticks his head over the building, and taps his ear. "Karen, activate Enhanced Hearing Mode."  
"Of course, Peter."  
All at once, the sound of cars screeching across asphalt and blaring music comes to a halt. The conversation below jumps out at him, and he leans closer, hands balling into fists. From what he gathers, the woman was attending a party of sorts and had had too many drinks. The man was "escorting" her home. But from his white-knuckle grip on her arm, Peter doubts he intends to uphold his promise of leaving soon afterwards.

A low growl rumbles in his chest, and the edges of his vision bleed green; Peter blinks, shakes his head, and closes his eyes. Something's rising within him, and his hands are trembling. It occurs to him, albeit distantly, that he isn't breathing. Karen's talking to him, her voice growing higher and higher with each passing second, but he can't move. His eyes are fixated on the scene below him, watching with an increasingly potent repulsion as the man struggles to keep the woman moving.

Behind his eyes, Peter can see another woman and another guy in an alley just like this; the image lasts for just a moment, interrupted by Karen's threat to electrocute him.

"It's okay, Karen, I'm okay", he assures as he takes in a deep breath. He wipes a hand over his face and stares as the man begins shouting at the woman.

Before the situation can escalate further, Peter hops off the roof and lands before the pair. The woman stumbles, drool dripping down her chin, and stares at him with faint alarm. The man curses, narrows his eyes, and wraps an arm around the woman's waist; she squirms, flicks her eyes to him, then to Peter.

"Hiya, guys", Peter greets with a head tilt. "How's the evening treating ya?"

"Fine and dandy, thanks. Now, if you don't mind, we'd best be on our way. We've got plans."  
"Oh, that's cool." Peter wriggles between them and tosses an arm over the man's shoulder; he aims a bed of webbing beneath the woman, sighing when he sees her safety dangling from the lamp post above. He then turns back to the man. "Cause, you know, I actually don't have any plans tonight. And I was wondering if it'd be okay for me to spend a few minutes 'escorting' you to the police station for...what is this? Roofies and attempted rape? Am I close? Tell me I'm close."

"Listen, you little punk, why don't you butt the fuck out? I'm just trying to have a good time."

"If this is your idea of a good time, I don't wanna see you on a bad day." Before the man can say more, Peter delivers a kick to his head and sends him tumbling against the garbage container lining the building. The man groans, and Peter spreads his fingers to shoot webbing across his mouth. His blood crackles like firecrackers, and his spine jolts. All at once, Peter finds himself pressing his elbow against the man's throat.

"Peter", Karen is saying. "The authorities have been contacted; assistance shall arrive in approximately five minutes." Her tone is calm, professional, but there's an undercurrent of concern in her words. He doesn't know why that bothers him. "You're applying too much pressure."  
Peter presses harder and growls. He blinks, and the man disappears, replaced by another; this one has a glass eye and a scar above his right eyebrow. He's smiling, just like the beaming moon above them. Peter blinks again, and the man's returned, moonbeams bouncing off of his glasses.

"You guys are disgusting", Peter growls at the man. "You're fucking sick; you'd be doing the world a favor by just dying, you know. No one would miss you. No one would even remember you cause guys like you just live in the shadows."

"Peter?"  
He lowers his arm; webbing the man's stomach to the wall, he sighs and swipes a hand past his ear. "Kinda busy, Karen."  
"I believe that woman is in need of assistance."  
Peter cranes his neck and glances up at the woman; she's leaning over the walls of his makeshift cage, vomiting quite violently. His face contorted with sympathy, he flips the man off and swings up to the woman, clinging at a safe distance from her.

"Hi", he greets; his voice comes out harsher than intended, so he clears his throat. "Hi. The cops are on their way. You mind if I bring you back down?"  
She looks up and stares at him.

"I know you're scared. Heck, if I were you, I'd have shat myself and fainted by this point. But you're safe now." Peter jerks his head to the detained man below. "He can't you hurt anymore, and some people will be here to help you in just a minute. But you're kinda high up, and, strong as this stuff is, I'm afraid it doesn't hold for very long. We've gotta get you down from here. Okay?"

She's trembling; her face is pale from a fear he hopes he'll never understand, and she won't meet his eyes. But she is listening. Pressing a hand against her mouth, she nods, tosses an arm over Peter's shoulders, and allows herself to be carried to the ground. By the time he's carefully placed her against the side of a building, red and blue lights have begun to flicker at the end of the alley. The man groans, the woman sighs, and Peter, for all his relief, finds himself frozen to the spot.

Two police officers storm down the alley, one rushing to the girl and the other to the man. Neither has the chance to approach Peter; after apprehending the man and further comforting the woman, Peter launches a string of webbing and ascends into the sky.

He spends the rest of the night watching the streets; he finds a few more assholes, assists some kids in retrieving their cat from a tree, even has a nice chat with a lady about the difference between jams and jellies. But he's careful to avoid the police from that point on. Just hearing a siren sends his body into a rigid stupor, though he can't discern why.

Soon after, his watch beeps, and he makes his way back home. Another night without sleep, Peter can't help but think as he crawls back into his room. But it's something he's growing accustomed to, so he leaves for school and ignores the growing sense of weariness.

. . .

Happy's surprise visit is, well, surprising.

Following the Vulture Incident, Peter had considerably drawn back on the phone calls. It was part of his deal with Mr. Stark: "Focus on managing your own life before worrying about saving someone else's"; sound advice, no doubt.

Coupled with Aunt May's overt concern for his well being, it was almost an easy decision to slap some balance back into his schedule. Before, it was the nonstop life of a superhero featuring the antics of a teenage boy. Now, Peter is a person from five am to eleven pm, and he takes Saturdays and Sundays off when the apocalypse isn't pending.

So life had been...well, not normal, but manageable for a time. It'd been months since he'd last called Happy. So when he returns home from school one day and finds him sitting uncomfortably on their sofa, Peter has to take a moment to collect himself.

And another to calm the rising typhoon of discomfort in his stomach.

"Peter!", Aunt May whispers, eyes wide with excitement as she guides him to the couch. "It's the guy from the Stark internship!" She pushes Peter onto the other side of the couch and beams.

Happy takes a sip from his cup of coffee and watches him.

Peter squirms.

They have a quick conversation, most of which Peter chooses to omit from, until Happy shakes Aunt May's hand and leads Peter downstairs to the limo waiting out front. Peter's silent for the first fifteen minutes of the ride; he catches Happy staring at him multiple times and figures he should probably say something. But the cushions of his seat are so comfortable and warm, and it's been days since he's slept; by the time they've met rush hour traffic, Peter's drooling against the window and dreaming of rusted metal, green dresses, and cherry pie.

Funny. He's always hated cherry pie.

"Come on, Parker. Wake up."  
Peter startles, flails his arms, and falls out of the car. Still not quite awake, he hops to his feet and prepares to launch an aimless kick through the air. Before he can, an arm descends from the ceiling and snatches his foot away from Happy. Peter sprays the quickly approaching wall with webbing, prepared for a damning collision, only to be snatched by the waist at the last moment. When he looks up, he finds two other sets of mechanical arms cradling him. A low, rumbling growl emits from his chest, and Peter clenches his fingers into a too-tight fist.

"What the fuck-"  
"Parker", Happy pants, his shoulders heaving. He's watching him with that look. It's the one he has when something's annoying him, the one Peter had grown used to being underneath. But there's something else to it now; worry, suspicion, whatever, but something's not sitting right with him. "Tony's waiting for us."  
Peter huffs, glaring as the arms place him back on his feet and pat him on his head. Absentmindedly swatting them away, he joins Happy on the walk to Mr. Stark's kitchen and clears his throat. "I, uh, I'm sorry. It's a reflex thing", he explains, staring at the floor.  
Happy flicks his eyes to him, then back to the corridor stretching ahead of them. "Don't worry about it. Just pull yourself together. Tony's got something he wants to talk to you about; it's important."

"Right." Peter rubs at his eyes. The tiredness is back and, with it, a spark of irritability. "What exactly is that again?"  
"If I was able to tell you, I wouldn't have brought you here, would I?" He looks at Peter as if he expects a retort; when he doesn't get one, he rolls back his shoulders and inhales. "Look, you're not in trouble or anything. He justs wants to check in; you've been pretty quiet these past few months."  
"I've been busy", Peter says through a yawn.

They pause at a wide berthed door frame and glance inside. Mr. Stark is standing at one of the kitchen's islands, tentatively chewing a sandwich. When he sees the two creeping into the room, he smiles, waves them over, and lifts a mug off the counter.

"Hey. So he is alive", he greets, gripping them both by the shoulder. "Thanks, Happy."  
"No problem." He claps Mr. Stark across the back and smiles; it looks weird on his face, but that's probably because Peter's never seen it before. "I'd better get going. Pepper wants me to look over some papers with her."

"Ah, always on the move. Good luck, buddy."  
"Yeah, yeah." He turns back to the door frame. Pausing halfway through, he gives Peter one last look. "See ya later, kid."

Peter blinks. "Bye, Happy."

At the island, Mr. Stark raises an eyebrow; he lifts his mug to his lips and takes a sip. Peter's still staring at the doorway, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Mr. Stark leans over the island and snaps his fingers just inches from Peter's nose.

Several seconds pass, and Peter turns to look at him. His head is swimming, like someone's taken a spoon and stirred its contents into a soup of things that don't make sense and don't quite fit. He scratches the back of his head and swipes two fingers beneath his nose. "Hey. Uh, Happy said you needed to talk to me about something?"

Mr. Stark nods; he scoops his sandwich off of the ceramic plate sitting on the table and takes a bite. "Yeah", he says as he reaches into his pocket; he pulls out what appears to be a rectangular shard of glass but is actually a piece of tech. A hologram emits from the glass, projecting the Spiderman suit.

The original suit.

His eyes widened ever so slightly, Peter drops his elbows onto the island and smiles.

"Remember this guy", Mr. Stark asks with a smirk that mirrors his own.

"Yeah, I remember." Then, his expression fraught with worry, he whips his head around and stares. "Wait, you aren't demoting me again, are you?"  
"No, no, 'course not." Mr. Stark finishes off the last of his sandwich, belches into his hand, and wraps an arm around Peter. With his free hand, he twists the piece of glass; the hologram flickers; when it's regained its form, several icons have emerged beside the suit. The suit itself looks like its current design.

"I heard about your fight with the, uh, Octopus", Mr. Stark is saying; he folds his arms over his chest. "Not gonna lie, I was impressed. But if you're gonna be dealing with freaks like that." He whistles, splays his fingers against the hologram, and smirks as the icons expand in size. "You're gonna need an upgrade."  
Something pulses within Peter's head; two opposing forces, one that's filled with pride and one that's bristling with rage, are at battle, both seeking his utmost attention. Upon seeing the eagerness within Mr. Stark's eyes, the pride wins, and Peter smiles. His eye twitches. "An upgrade?"  
"Yeah." He presses a finger against one of the icons; "15% increase" jumps out at them, and Peter giggles. "The suit looks the same, sorry to say, but there's a lot beneath the surface. For one, the suit's got a 15% increase in damage resistance. And there's a zipper-like thingy on your chest that can make the suit recede into a wristband."  
"Talk about convenient", Peter marvels. He reaches out and begins tapping the icons, his energy returning to him with each one that passes by. But when he clicks on the last icon and finds it to be a heat signature detector, his blood runs cold, and that foggy feeling returns. His hands hover above the hologram, and he blinks, staring through the image.

"Hey, kid." Mr. Stark snaps his fingers once more, sighing when he recaptures his attention. "Where is your head today?" At Peter's lack of a reply, his frown deepens; he twists the piece of glass, and the hologram disappears. Sliding it back into his pocket, he takes in the dark circles beneath Peter's eyes and his drooping shoulders. "Have you been sleeping?"  
"Kinda", Peter murmurs, shoving his hands into his pockets. Mr. Stark stares at him with knowing eyes and folds his arms over his chest. Peter bites his lip and looks away. "Okay, no, not really. Not since last week."

Mr. Stark nods, his lips pursed, and continues eyeing him. He's watching him the way Aunt May does when she catches him stumbling in after a night of Spiderman; like he knows something is amiss, but isn't quite sure how to approach the matter. "Are you okay?"  
Something cold creeps across his neck, snatching the breath from his lungs; Peter gulps, shakes his head, and tries to push past the recurring sense of a chill in the air. Once his air returns to him, he runs his hands up and down his arms and glances around the room; they're still alone.

"I'm fine", he eventually says through a shudder. "Just a little restlessness; nothing I can't handle."  
And it's bullshit. It's bullshit because he's a terrible liar and because he knows these are probably, hopefully, demons that have tormented Mr. Stark before. That still torment him if his own bags are any indication.

But even so, the only sign of disbelief he shows is the faint narrowing of his eyes. He squeezes Peter's shoulder, then turns to the refrigerator. "All right, then." He begins rummaging through it, calling over his shoulder, "You hungry? I picked up some of those hot dogs you said you liked."

His shoulder is hot, irritated. And for a moment, the room pulsing with anger that's oozing from within; he takes a deep breath, scratches furiously at the shoulder, and closes his eyes. "No mayonnaise", he squeaks out, taking hold of a trembling wrist.

He knows Mr. Stark is watching him. And Peter knows that this isn't just a sleep thing but rather something bigger, something that he needs to confront. The chills, the phantom fingers, the random yet frequent bursts of anger. If he was a normal kid, Peter would've written it off as stress overload or mental breakdown. But this isn't stress, and he isn't any crazier than he's ever been.

Mr. Stark's standing within arm's reach. He could tell him. And Peter wants to tell him, but he isn't quite sure how. So he remains silent, eats the offered hot dog, and doesn't protest when Mr. Stark later shoos him to the TV room for a nap.

Only this time, sleep appears to have resumed its elusive nature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I've decided, and the fic'll be updated twice a week. Once on Wednesdays and then again on Saturdays. Depending on how much time being a human takes, the updates might (emphasis on might, like a huge fucking emphasis) be more frequent. But for now, just expect two updates a week. See you guys in a few days. Bye!


	3. What Was and What's to Come?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does it count as a flashback if you're living in a state of perpetual lost time?   
> Pete's still having trouble sleeping, so he thinks on the Doc's death and talks with Karen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, my little sunbuns!   
> Not much going on in this chapter. Just filling in that obligatory "WHAT HAPPENED?" in regards to Doc's death as well as getting some more Pete and Karen scenes in. Next update will be this Saturday so keep an eye out; it's gonna be a shocker.   
> (That was kind of a pun ((if I'm understanding physics correctly (((probably not :3)), but you guys won't get it 'til Saturday. So. You know. Just come on back if you wanna understand it. Or if you wanna get on with the story, psssh, whatever works).   
> Oh, and 799 hits? 41 kudos? Not to mention the bookmarks and comments. You guys, I am legit in awe. Just thank you so much, seeing this big of a reaction makes me so happy.

He hadn’t meant to kill the Doc.  
He was a massive pain in the ass, and his flagrant disregard for human life was beyond infuriating. Countless times, Peter had considered an earth without the villain. And in the midst of battle, there were moments when he saw a move that could’ve put an end to the Doc’s terror. But he hadn’t meant to kill him.   
It was a miscalculation of pressure. A simple butterfly kick; nothing he hadn’t done dozens of times before. And yet, he’d never done one on the Chrysler Building. Doc surged forward, arms closing in around Peter, and Peter kicked, propelling himself onto one of the Building’s gargoyles. The Doc was launched in the opposite direction and fell thirty stories until he collided with asphalt.   
He didn’t scream. He just watched Peter, his eyes devoid of emotion, and plummeted.   
When Peter’s initial shock faded, he crawled down the side of the building and hovered over the Doc’s corpse; in the fall, the Doc had been imprinted in the earth, several feet beneath the asphalt. His eyes were closed, and the wheezing breathing that normally accompanied him was gone.   
So it came as a surprise when one of the Doc’s arms snapped to attention and took hold of his hands. Peter squeaked and tugged backwards; his body trembled as the Doc sent him one last unhinged smile and a spark of electricity between their bodies. Peter’s eyes glew a bright green as the life faded from the Doc’s.   
With a gasp, he stumbled away and tripped over his feet. He lifted a trembling hand before him and stared as a green energy was dispersed through his veins. Upon looking up from his hand, he found a crowd of concerned civilians staring at him. His chest ached as his ribcage was collapsing, crumbling, and his skin was crackling with unspent energy.  
Peter wanted nothing more than to offer a witty retort to soothe the citizens. Because that was the job, wasn’t it? Save the people and, when you can’t, crack a few jokes to cushion the blow of what’s sure to be a longstanding trauma. Everyone was freaking out, and Spiderman was always the cure for a good freaking out.   
Except, Peter himself was on the verge of panic. The Doc was dead, lying so deep in the earth it might as well have been a coffin, and it was Peter’s fault. Bad guy or not, he was Peter’s responsibility, and Peter failed. People were watching him, and helicopters were approaching, and the Doc’s dead eyes were watching him. His goggles had shattered in the fall, leaving Peter captive underneath a gaze that was both enraged and doleful.   
A convoy of squad cars had just rounded the corner when Peter’s senses returned to him. There was someone shouting, ordering him to the ground. But by then, he’d already launched a string of webbing onto an adjacent building and flung away.  
He went home early that night.   
Tonight, he hasn’t left the house. He’s just laying in bed, staring at the ceiling; he’s sweating so badly that he’s soaked through his pajama bottoms. He should probably change into something dryer, but he can’t will himself to do more than roll out of bed; he pulls himself into his desk’s chair, rubs a hand over his face, and yawns.   
“Karen”, Peter says, tapping his earpiece. He takes out a sheet of paper and a pen and begins writing. “Talk to me.”  
The earpiece whirrs to life. “Hello, Peter. What would you like me to talk about?”  
“Anything”, he groans as he presses his palms against his eyes. “It’s too fucking loud.”  
Karen does a quick scan of the apartment and the surrounding neighborhood. When she replies, her voice is colored with confusion. “The apartment is silent. Excluding the occasional police siren and car horn, the neighborhood is relatively quiet. What is it that you’re hearing?”  
“My brain pounding against my skull for one.” After misspelling a word, he pulls a face and drags his pen back and forward across the paper. The paper is worn thin to the point that he stabs a hole through it. Symbols that he doesn’t recognize jump from the paper, and he winces. Peter inhales, pushes the notebook away, and drops his head into his hands. “I need some sleep.”  
The room falls silent. For a moment, the only sign of life in the entire apartment is the ragged breathing from Peter’s chest; he feels wound up, stretched thin, and compressed all at once. It reminds him of life before Spiderman, back when things like asthma attacks were still an issue. And for all the fear and pain they caused, he can’t help but yearn for them. He wants to feel scared, he wants to feel something, but he’s just so tired.   
He just wants to sleep.  
“Peter”, Karen pipes up. “I...liked that shirt you were wearing today. It’s a very interesting shade of blue; cobalt, perhaps?”  
Peter smiles into his hands. “Thanks, Karen.”  
“You’re welcome.” She’s silent for another minute, then says, “And your socks are, er, riveting. Planets and kittens. I would have never thought of pairing those together, but you, as the kids say, certainly make it work.”  
“They do look kinda cool, don’t they?”  
“Yes, yes, they do.”  
He lifts his feet into his seat and stares down at his socks; the planet socks were a gift from MJ and the kittens from Ned. Truth be told, they were his favorite socks, his lucky socks. When deciding what to wear that morning, he’d chosen them with the hopes that they could turn the week around. They hadn’t, of course, but they brought with them a sense of security. He misses security.  
“The gang and I are gonna hang out next weekend”, Peter tells her. “This old laboratory at the edge of the city.”  
“Well, that sounds like fun. Are you excited?”  
“Yeah. It’s been awhile since we’ve all just hung out.” Spinning around in his swivel chair, he lowers his hands to his stomach and chuckles. “Ned and Cindy are kinda-but-not-really together, so that’s gonna be interesting.”  
If Karen had a temporal form, she’d probably be cocking her head to the side right now. “Why?”  
“Cause, you know, we’re all friends. I don’t think the dynamics will change or anything but...Well, that just leaves me and MJ and uh…”  
“You like her.”  
Peter blushes and sinks further into his seat. Scratching the back of his head, he laughs and ignores the cold fingers dancing upon his chest. “Uh. I don’t know, maybe.”  
“Maybe? Shouldn’t you know how you feel?”  
Peter smiles. “Okay, yeah, I like her. But it’s like....Okay.” Stirring abruptly, he kicks his feet against the floor and sends the seat spinning. “So, when we’re talking, she’s herself, you know? Blunt, weird, but cool; it’s MJ. But, sometimes, we’ll be talking, and I’ll catch her watching me. Or she’ll say something that sounds like flirting. Only, I don’t know if that’s just her being awkward or, you know, if it’s something more.” He shakes his head and kicks his feet beneath him. “You’re a girl, Karen. How do you think she feels about me?”  
Karen chuckles in his ear. “I’m a being of Artificial Intelligence, Peter; I don’t have a gender. And even if I did, not all women think the same.”  
“Right, right.” He juts a foot down, and the chair comes to a stop. His head spinning, he closes his eyes and exhales. “But if you had to guess?”  
“Well, I’m no expert. But from the way you describe her, I’d say that she is attracted to you.”  
At that, Peter scowls. Which, yes, is a strange reaction given the circumstances. But he scowls nonetheless because if that’s true, it just makes whatever it is that they have all the more confusing. He leaps from his chair, jumps into bed, and spreads into a star. “Then why doesn’t she just tell me?”  
“Probably the same reason you won’t tell her.”  
He rolls his eyes; turning onto his side, he pulls his second pillow from beside him and tosses it into the air. Before it can fall back into his hands, he shoots some webbing from his fingers; a bedding of webbing cradles the fluffy pillow, swaying from side to side. Peter smiles, feeling the tendrils of sleep envelop him. “I just don’t want things to get weird”, he explains as he stretches his limbs. “Life’s hard enough when you’ve got people that care about you.”  
“I’ve seen your friends”, Karen consoles. “They won’t let any ‘weirdness’ get in the way of what you have.”  
Peter hums and pulls his blanket over him. He’s falling, falling quickly now, and that can only mean the nightmares are coming. But for the moment, he has Karen, and he has the thoughts of the gang and next weekend. He’s dreading the next few hours, yet he’s also cherishing the brief surge in pleasantness. It’s an strange juxtaposition yet also a welcome one. And, sure, the nightmares do increase in intensity this time. But the resulting torrent of energy is more than worth it. Even if it’s accompanied by an increasingly dour mood.


	4. Me and You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New York's home to a lot of villains; Peter runs into one he hasn't seen in a good minute, and things happen.

Two loaves of bread, toothpaste, Q-tips, and box of corn dogs.

Aunt May went to the store just two days ago, but she'd forgotten a few things. She's not feeling very well today, so it's up to Peter to get these last few items.

Walmart's usually pretty crowded this late in the day. People get off work, leave school, the first thing they want is probably a bite to eat. Walmart's cheap and within walking distance, so it's usually their go-to place.

There's a Yankees' game tonight, though, so the store's relatively empty. Upon entering, Peter even notes that most of the registers are empty. It's not too big a problem, though. He wasn't feeling up to any social interaction anyway.

He gathers his things quickly and walks to the Self-Checkout Lane. For once, the lines are at a minimal, so much so that a few are even empty. Peter hops into one of these, sleepily pushing his cart down the aisle. As he's placing the corn dogs on the counter, a lady in a teal trench coat brushes past him. Her basket clatters to the floor, and an assorted mix of fruits and veggies spills out. He turns to murmur "excuse me", only to pause as he catches sight of her golden pixie cut.

"Pretty sure that's not how this works", she chuckles as she crouches to retrieve her food. "I bumped into you, kid."

Peter stares, absentmindedly scanning his items, and watches as the woman rises to her feet. She pulls a banana out of her basket and scowls at a developing bruise. Turning it over in her hands, she then says, "Take a pic if you want it to last."  
Peter flushes red. He turns back to his lane and shoves his stuff into a tote. From his peripheral, he can see her tug on the neon yellow gloves covering her hands. He clears his throat, tosses his tote over his shoulder, and leaves for the exit.

"Karen", he whispers as he jogs into an alley. Peter slaps a hand across his wrist and stretches into a T. The suit envelopes him, and he leaps onto the side of the building. "Mr. Stark give you public memory before you were activated, right?"

Karen whirrs to life before opening her memory files. "Yes. If anything's ever been published, I have knowledge of it."  
"All right." He dashes across the roof of the Walmart and peers over the ledge. "What do you have on Foxfire?"

"Nothing, I'm afraid. Any and all searches direct me to a web browser. There are, however, a few mentions of the name as an alias for a pyromaniacal convict in Pennsylvania-"  
"Yup." Peter scratches his chin and scowls. "That'd be her."

"As of three weeks ago, she's been reported as having escaped from her jail cell." His mask chirps, and Karen's voice takes a soft note of curiosity. "Do you know her?"

"Know her?" Peter scoffs, shakes his head, and scans the parking lot. Without prompt, the licenses and registrations of each vehicle jump to him. He hums, leans forward, and scrutinizes each. "A few months after I got my powers, I heard word of someone setting a Waffle House on fire. Got there and found her with a mouthful of waffles and a purse full of money. She burned me." Scowling heavily, he presses two fingers into the pink, lumpy skin of his thigh; the burn's long since healed, but it'll never fade. And neither will the memory of his first failure as Spiderman. "She got away. Couple of weeks later, there's word of a mad arsonist running loose in North Carolina. I didn't think anyone would ever catch her. She's like a spectre; almost nobody knows about her, and those that do can never keep her contained."

"That sounds frustrating."  
"You have no idea." Most of the vehicles come back clean, but the rusty pickup truck sitting at the front of the entrance was recently reported as stolen. Upon activating Enhanced Sight, Peter can see the metal of the front door has recently been melted. "That's our girl", he murmurs just as Foxfire exits the Walmart's doors.

Without hesitation, Peter leaps over the ledge and shoots webbing around her; her bags clatter to the ground, and she collapses, groaning as she collides with the pavement.

"Well, well, well", he titters as he swings to her. "If it isn't my old friend, Foxfire. Now, I'm not the jump-to-conclusions type, so I'm just gonna assume you lost my number."  
"Fucking prick." She rolls onto her side and begins backing away from him. He just follows. "I don't know what you're talking about."  
"Hm. Right." Peter sprays the lamp post three lots down from them; he then sprays a thread around her waist, sending her dangling thirteen feet above the earth. "You know", he muses. "If you're gonna go on the lam, you might wanna think about washing out the yellow. It's kind of a giveaway."  
"First of all, dipshit, it's gold, not yellow. And it ain't dye." She juts down a foot, and a ray of energy shoots forward and takes out the bottom section of the lamp post. Before the lamp can crush her, Foxfire shoots energy rays from her eyes and disintegrates the webs binding her. "I let you live last time", she says as she jets towards him, a trail of yellow falling behind her. "Don't think Imma make that mistake again."

"Mistake? I thought that was just out of the kindness of your heart. Eep!" Peter leaps out of the way of a rather heated energy blast and ducks beneath a convertible. Moments later, the truck sitting beside him is set afire. Peter slithers from underneath his car, narrowly escaping the ensuing explosion.

"It's getting a little hot in here, old buddy, old pal." He swings past another lamp post, dragging Foxfire along by the collar of her coat. "How about we take the fight somewhere else? You know, somewhere a little less private and a little less civiliany?"  
"Well, ya know what they say, Spidey. If you can't take the heat." Foxfire's brown eyes flash white; a blinding glow surrounds her arms and legs, incinerating her coat until just a blue leotard is left. "Stay out of the kitchen."

Peter lets her go, hissing as he draws his fingers into his mouth, and flings himself against a decaying billboard. As Foxfire storms his way, he plants his fingers firmly into the wood and narrows his eyes. "You know, Foxy, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you didn't like me."  
"Good thing you don't know any better then. Cause if you did, you wouldn't have picked a fight with me." She charges towards him on a stream of energy and prepares to grab hold of him. Just as she's gotten close, though, Peter propels himself from the billboard and into the side of a nearby building. He slams into the wall with a "OOF!", then crashes to the ground. Likewise, Foxfire collides with the billboard, her head slamming through the wooden material.

In the moments she takes to regain her balance, Peter crawls to his feet and web swings up to her. He removes her from the ruined ad, binds her ankles and wrists, and prepares to swing to the nearest police station.

Before he can, though, Foxfire charges up her arms, burning him until she's able to fall once more.

"You're not a very nice playmate", Peter informs her with a growl.

"Peter", Karen pipes up, apprehension deep-suited in her voice. "Perhaps you should call for assistance."  
"I don't need help", he murmurs as he searches the skies for Foxfire. He catches sight of her jetting over an abandoned water tower and smirks. "I need to take her down."  
"You're too close to this, Peter. Leave it alone."  
"Karen, leave ME alone. I know what I'm doing." With that, he powers off his earpiece and launches himself back into the air. He shoots another string of webbing and snatches Foxfire by her arm. When he tugs on the string, a pop and a shout echo through the air as her elbow is dislodged from its socket. A quick swing and a kick to the knees then sends her tumbling to the ground, incapacitated.

"I've always preferred receptive audiences." Peter releases the sticky web from his fingers' grasp and crouches beside Foxfire. She hisses and sits up to fire an energy blast from her functioning arm. As she's leaning forward, Peter snatches hold of the arm and twists it in an ungodly position. She shrieks, and her eyes flare pure white. Peter takes hold of her by the neck and glowers. Rising to his feet, he raises Foxfire into the air and presses a finger against her windpipe.

Foxfire chokes.

"So", he muses as the white fades from her eyes. "Break the limbs, and the fire goes out? I'll have to keep that in mind next time I run into Johnny." She struggles in his grip, flailing and swinging the unbroken leg at him. Peter just shakes his head and tut, tut, tuts. "Foxy. Come on now." A lopsided grin creeps onto his face. He lifts his other hand to drag a finger along her cheekbone. He giggles. "Don't be a bitch."

"Peter!" A bolt of electricity surges through Peter, and he gasps, releasing Foxfire from his grip. Foxfire wheezes, her fingers clawing at her throat, and looks up to glare at Peter.

"Peter", Karen's shouting at him. "Peter, what are you doing?"  
He doesn't answer. He just stares down at Foxfire. And he takes in her broken limbs. Broken. Had he done that? "I'm sorry", he whispers to her. "I-I'm so sorry." He takes a step backward, stumbles, and stares, wide-eyed behind the mask. "I didn't mean-"  
"What-" Foxfire heaves and coughs up a glob of spit. Swiping the back of her palm over her mouth, she then blinks and shakes her head. "What the hell is wrong with you?"  
"I don't know." Peter whimpers, his breath coming out in broken breaths, and takes his head in his hands. "I'm sorry." She raises an eyebrow at Peter, but he's already turned his back to her and begun swinging away. "Karen, call a hospital."  
She doesn't say anything in response, but there's that whirring in his ear that lets him know she's doing something. Biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, Peter swings past block after block, ducking beneath billboards and hurtling over several flocks of pigeons. He's high, but he's low at the same time. His chest aches like a distant memory, and his ears are clogged. Karen's saying something, his phone's ringing in his backpack, and that fucking chill is back.

Everything's slamming into him, and he needs it all to stop.

For the past two weeks, he's felt nothing but exhaustion and terror. Now, the terror is much present, but the weariness that's afflicted his entire being is absent. He's more awake than he's been in months, in fact, and it's giving him the chance to fully appreciate this moment for all it's worth.

And it's strange. Because it's such a gruesome act, and most of him is repulsed. But a part of him is pleased and actually wants to go back and finish the job.

"This is not okay", Peter murmurs to himself as he swings aimlessly through the city. "This is not, this is not okay, this is not okay."  
"Why not?"

His muscles freeze, and he free falls. Perhaps the strangest thing is that he doesn't remember catching himself, but he's just happy that he does.

It's a few minutes later, or hours maybe, when he decides it's time to park it for the night. His arms are screaming from overuse, and he's running low on webbing. There's not much else to do tonight aside from rest.

Peter makes a left and lands against the side of an apartment. He ascends on a slant, pausing before the third window on the fifth floor. He knocks, then he waits.

It's only three minutes before Ned eventually peeks his head out the window. But for all the world, Peter can't help but feel he's lived through an eternity.

Peter snatches off his mask and crawls out of his suit. They're both shoved in his backpack, which is then discarded beneath Ned's bed.

"Peter", Ned says as he yawns; he rubs a knuckle into his eye and watches as Peter fidgets in the middle of his room. "Are you okay?"  
Peter takes a seat on the shag carpeting of the floor. His fingers clench around the carpet, and he closes his eyes. Not a moment later, Ned's crouching and sitting beside him. He wraps a hesitant arm around Peter's shoulders and pulls him close. Peter just breathes.

"Want me to call Aunt May and tell her you're sleeping over?"

Peter nods.

He feels numb.

. . .

He doesn't sleep, but Ned doesn't need to know that. At around two or three, Peter sneaks back out the window and goes home. He wakes Ned before he leaves, tells him bye, and leaves.

He tells himself it's not final, but the words taste false, and he's too tired to put further conviction into the lie.

. . .

Peter knows it's gonna be a bad day when he awakes an hour late.

Aunt May's got a stomach bug, and his phone is dead. It's a mere matter of circumstances, but it sends a trickle of anger throughout his veins. The potency of the emotion is enough to steal his balance. He stumbles out of bed and leans against his dresser, panting as he snatches a pair of jeans off his chair. He then wobbles into the hallway, turns into the bathroom, and pauses before the mirror.

When he looks up, Peter can't say he's surprised to find the Doc staring back at him.

. . .

Going to school is not an option. Not with a mad scientist squatting in his brain.

But that also makes him a danger to Aunt May. After scribbling a quick note, Peter snatches his backpack from underneath his bed and sprints to the nearest train station. The train's nearly empty by this time, as most people have already gone to work and school. The car is nearly empty aside from Peter and another man sitting at towards the front of the cart; he has a dog sitting at his feet and a newspaper in his hands.

He hates dogs.

Peter inhales shakily and wipes a hand over his face. Placing two firms hands on his thighs, he swallows the gathering saliva in his mouth and closes his eyes. From behind his eyelids, several streaks of green creep along his field of vision; there's also a speck of blue amongst them, but it's quickly devoured by the streaks.

"Please tell me this is all just a nightmare", Peter pleads to himself; opening his eyes once more, he turns in his seat to stare out the window. The city is moving far too quickly for him to make out anything, and it's kind of making his head hurt. He should probably look away.

His phone buzzes, prompting him to retrieve it from his pocket; he presses a button and finds himself greeted by a collage of old timey movies. The words, "New Snap from the Breakfast Club" are bouncing about the screen. It's a picture of the gang, sitting at their lunch table. They're all making goofy faces and holding some food item or another in their hands.

"Missed you today, Peter!"  
"Hope you're okay!"  
"I'm still waiting on those Toostie Rolls, you dork."  
Peter hums, swipes the screen, and makes his own snap. After sending the video to them, he stands from his seat and rushes off the train.

It's a sunny day in New York City, and its inhabitants seem to have been influenced by the atmosphere; several people give him a smile, and a few even offer him a well-mannered, "Good morning".

"Wretched simpletons", he finds himself swearing as he pauses at a crosswalk; his eyes widen, and he covers his mouth with a hand.

The man in a trench coat besides him raises an eyebrow. "Rough morning, pal?"

Peter gulps, shoves his hands into his armpits, and takes off across the street. There's a Ford that's about to turn; when the driver catches sight of Peter, they lean on their horn and shout at him. By then, though, he's already crossed the street and made a left into the nearest alley.

Peter doesn't remember putting on the suit. He doesn't remember swinging halfway across town and stealing a cup of coffee, either. If not for Ned's incoming call, he probably wouldn't have remembered lingering outside the BNY Mellon. But Ned comes through, and Karen, who'd been growing increasingly worried, sends a spark of electricity through his suit.

He blinks, leans back on the lamp post he's perched on, and shakes his head. "Jeez, Karen. What the hell?"  
"Ned's calling you", Karen returns, her voice wavering. Before he can say anything more, Karen patches him through, and her voice is quickly replaced with Ned's.

"Peter", he says with a breath of exasperation. "Dude, where are you?"  
Peter pinches the bridge of his nose and forces himself to breathe. He doesn't feel like talking. He doesn't feel like doing much of anything right now. He just wants to let whatever this is take the reins for a while and get some sleep; the few hours he'd caught the night before were already spent, and he's looking forward to any form of respite.

But this is Ned. "Nowhere", he says as he hops onto the ledge of the nearest building.

"Really? Cause it kinda sounds like you're somewhere that's really windy and...noisy? Is that a jackhammer?"  
Peter rolls his eyes; draping one leg over the ledge, he smiles and taps his fingers against his knee; it takes more energy than it should. "Yeah, I'm, uh, down on Liberty Street."  
"Liberty Street? By the Mellon? You ditched school to go the bank?"  
"What? No. I'm just walking around." He glances down at his hand and flexes his fingers; that arctic cold feeling is back again, urging him to end the call and allow it to give him the zest he needs. Peter shakes his head and pops his knuckles. "I just needed a day off", he murmurs as his head lolls from side to side. "After everything with the Doc, I'm kinda...not all the way here. I just need to take some time off, I guess."  
"Right, right. "Pete?"  
"Yeah."  
"I don't always get this superhero stuff", he begins, stumbling over his words. He pauses, and, in the background, metal scrapes against the floor. Peter winces, drawing the phone from his ear, but he continues listening. "I keep thinking that you hopped out of a comic book, like Superman or something. You know, that you're invincible and that everyone's always gonna be okay."  
At that, Peter chuckles. Ned seems to take that as encouragement because when he resumes, his voice is stronger.

"But, I mean, this isn't a story. It's real life. And in real life, people get hurt sometimes. And I know that's gotta be a pretty heavy load."  
Peter smiles; from below, a man's dropped his bags of groceries and begun shouting. The assortment of fruits, vegetables, and bags of Cheetos roll down the sidewalk and into the street. Peter shoots a web in front of them, then turns to look at the clothes line to the right of him. "Comics always make it seem so easy", he eventually agrees. Watching as a red t-shirt blows in the mid-morning wind, Peter rocks back and forward on his ledge. The bricks are warm, heating up as the sun scales the blue skies. He purses his lips and kicks one foot up. "But the suit does get pretty heavy", he admits as he removes his mask from his face.  
Ned's silent for a moment. Someone's murmuring on his end on the phone, something about an extra credit assignment. But Ned's either not listening or not a part of the conversation because he doesn't respond. Instead, he inhales and says, "If you ever wanna come over and just, I don't know, play with legos or work on your Lair or LARP, just let me know."  
Peter smiles. "LARP?"  
"You said you wanted to try it out", he says with a chuckle. "But yeah. Anytime. Just, uh, let me know."

"I will. Thanks, Ned."  
A shrill voice beams from the phone, and Peter flinches; his teeth chatter as he struggles to calm his pounding heart.

Ned sucks in a breath, then says, "Ms. Hughes is going off. I gotta go. Talk to you later?"  
"Yeah, yeah, no problem." He hops from the ledge and begins to navigate the maze of discarded boxes across the roof. "Good luck on the exam."  
"Thanks. And good luck on whatever it is you're doing."  
Something cold stabs in him in the back of the neck. Peter gulps, rubs a hand over the spot, and bites his lip. From deep in his mind, the Doc screams, prompting an involuntary shiver down his spine.

"Later, Ned." Peter ends the call and turns to face the sun.

His hands are fidgeting.

Taking hold of his left hand, he crawls onto the extending fire escape and begins the walk down. The staircase is corroded from the wind and rains, and it wobbles as a strong gust washes over it. It must make for quite a sight, the Spiderman frantically clinging to the railing as he descends the steps. But it's all he can do to make sure he's in control; one step, one menial task at a time, he's taking hold of the situation.

When he reaches the bottom of the staircase, Peter sighs and pauses to sit on the steps.

"Karen?"

"Yes, Peter?"

He drags his fingernails against the rusted metal clinging to the steps; his fingers come back brown and irritated; closing his eyes, he tucks the hand underneath his thigh and closes his eyes. "Can you patch me through to Mr. Stark?"


	5. I Need Some Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Tony have a chat.

It should probably mean something that Mr. Stark accepts his appointment on such short notice. Hell, it should probably mean something that he even got through to him on the first call. Maybe it's because it's his first call in months. Maybe he's worried.

Maybe sleep deprivation's making Peter see things that aren't there.

Peter yawns into his palm and pulls his feet onto the couch. Mr. Stark's sitting on the other end, staring at him in a manner that's quite not the level of discreet he's aiming for.

"Still not sleeping, huh", he asks as he flicks through the Netflix menu. When he gets a droopy yet confused glance from Peter, he shrugs and kicks his shoes off his feet. "Happy's got the eyes of a hawk. Well, him and anyone else with functioning eyesight. You look like shit, kid."  
"I've been told", Peter replies, stretching his arms over his head. "Can we watch something not boring today? I'm tired of food documentaries."  
"Yeah, because watching YouTube videos about smiling, walking fish is so exciting. And, okay, tough guy, what counts as 'not boring'?"

He purses his lips as he considers this. Then, a thin smile sliding across his face, he looks up and says, "Chicken Run."  
Mr. Stark shakes his head. Nonetheless, he hops over to the search bar and begins typing in the name. "Can chicken run?"

Watching as the screen begins to buffer, Peter glances up and tilts his head. "Maybe? It might be more of a frantic waddle, though."

He hums, then reaches for his wine glass sitting on the table beside him. Upon seeing Peter eyeing the glass, his eyebrows burrow, and his lax expression turns taut. "No." He then presses play and turns to face the TV.

Peter blinks. "No what?"  
"No, I'm not letting you drink. You get sparkling water, and that's it. Wait a few years before you get into the habit."  
He frowns, turns his head away, and sighs. "I don't drink, Mr. Stark. And I don't want to either."  
Just as the screen's flickering through film company logos, Mr. Stark turns to Peter and matches his frown with one of his own; he takes in the bags beneath the kid's eyes, the tight set of his shoulders, the uneven breaths seeping from his chest. "Don't take this as me giving you permission to drink", Mr. Stark says. "But why not?" Peter raises an eyebrow, so he smiles and continues. "I was drinking when I was about your age. And I know a lot of other people can say the same." He chuckles and takes another sip of his drink. "Guess I was expecting more of a fight."

"Well, no fight here." Peter gives him a wan smile. "So you got no worries."  
Mr. Stark stares at him for a moment; he taps his earpiece, murmurs something to J.A.R.V.I.S. that the ceiling fan draws out, then sits up straighter. "All right, so we're talking about this", he says as he drops his chin into his hands. He takes a moment to clear his throat, then nods to himself. "Kid. Is there something we need to talk about?"

"Uh, no-"  
"I heard about the lady at the Walmart", he cuts in. "And the dick in the alley. And the dozen or so people that you've sent to the hospital these past two weeks."  
Peter bites his lip. Wringing his hands in his lap, he keeps his eyes trained on the TV; the chickens have appeared, and the sirens are sounding. He's staring too intently at the screen, but, for the life of him, he can't compose himself enough to focus.

It's too bad. It's a good film.

"How'd you know", eventually falls from his lips.

From his peripheral, he can see Mr. Stark shrug and down the rest of his drink. "Karen gives me reports on your little 'missions'. Helps keep me in the loop if you're dead or not."

"I'm not dead", Peter states through narrowed eyes.

"Yeah, but you're not okay either." He stares at Peter until he meets his eye. When he does, Mr. Stark sighs and shakes his head. "You're hurting."  
Peter drops his head against the back of the couch. "I feel fine."  
"Really? So tripping up the stairs and walking into a wall counts as 'fine'?" Peter goes quiet again, so Mr. Stark eases back. He takes a moment to clear the gruffness from his voice and choose the softest words he can find.

"Pete, I'm not mad. Okay. I promise you, I'm not. But you're freaking me out."

Peter wraps his arms around himself and closes his eyes.

"Now, you've gotta talk to me. You're not sleeping, you're beating the bad guys nearly to death, you-" He inhales, wipes a hand over his face, and scratches his beard. "You gotta be upfront with me. Whatever's going on, I'm here. We'll stay here 'til we get it all out. But talk to me. Is this something that, as Avengers, we need to worry about?"

Peter's spent days suffering as his mind betrays him, contemplating who to turn to, and it's led him here: several feet away from Mr. Stark, the one person who might understand just how trippy being a superhero is. He's afraid of sounding like an absolute lunatic and being committed, but he's even more afraid of what could happen if he remains silent. As it stands, several people have already been hurt. It's only a matter of time before this escalates to something of a far more gruesome matter.

"After you've taken off the suit", Peter begins, pressing onward despite the pinging pains in his head. "When you've stopped the bad guys and everyone's safe."  
Mr. Stark nods. "Yeah?"  
"Do you ever...feel weird?"  
He frowns. "Weird how?"  
"Weird like a part of the bad guy's latched onto you or something?" He turns to Mr. Stark; he feels numb, tired, like he's just gone a few dozen laps in the school pool. Throughout the visit, Doc's been sapping his energy, wanting nothing more than for him to jump from the window and swing home.

Peter hadn't listened, and he still isn't listening. Scary and delusional may it sound, this is real. And it's time to take action.

Peter swipes his fingers over his eyes and sighs. He looks up at Mr. Stark. "Weird like you're not really yourself?"

Mr. Stark picks up the controller once more and presses a button. The TV chimes, then flicks off, and he stands from the couch to exit the room. When he returns, it's with a bottle of water and a granola bar from the kitchen; he takes a seat on the ottoman before Peter and hands him the water and snack.

"Eat", he insists. Waving a hand as Peter begins to object, he pushes the food into his hands and scowls. "You look like literal hell, kid. When's the last time you've eaten something?"

Peter purses his lips and places the water bottle against his leg; clenching his stomach to silence its growls, he pulls back the wrapper of the granola bar and takes a bite. "I don't know", he admits around a mouthful of oats. He ducks his head and shrugs. "A day. Maybe two."  
"Peter-"

"I've been busy."  
"Bullshit. I've been talking to Karen." At Peter's horrified expression, he backsteps and shows his hands. "I haven't been prying. Scout's honor. I've only asked her to tell me how long you're patrolling."  
The granola bar in his hand crumbles. He's finding it hard to breathe again. Weird. "Nothing", he gulps and forces his lungs to take in some air. "Nothing personal, right?"  
"No", Mr. Stark assures. "She's only meant to contact me if you've started engaging in unhealthy habits or showing signs of mental illness." He crosses his arms and sighs. "Which, to be fair, is personal." Peter's still staring at him with eyes he doesn't recognize. Mr. Stark clears his throat and scratches the back of his head. "Guess I probably should have asked, huh?"  
Peter scoffs and takes a bundle of hair into his fist. "Yeah. Probably." He stares down at his shoes. Then, releasing his fingers from their fist, he glances back up at Mr. Stark and lets the hair fall back against his head. "But I get it. And I-I actually appreciate it. Just...let me know next time."  
Mr. Stark smiles. "Promise." He tosses one leg over the other and claps his hands together. The smile is still there. But as the moment passes and he reaches for the remote, it changes; the smile, meant to be comforting, is accompanied by perplexed eyes and worry lines.

That's never a good sign.

"Hey, Pete", Mr. Stark says as he clears his throat. "What did you mean before? About not feeling like yourself?"

Peter takes hold of his forearms; the pinging has increased to a tenfold, and there's something whispering "no" inside of him. And it's all on the Doc.

He doesn't want to be weird. He doesn't want to be "unstable" and "dangerous". He's had people looking at him his whole life, staring, watching, waiting. Because Peter's always been that weird kid. That kid that took shit apart, that kid with the dead parents, the kid with the dead uncle, that kid that never said anything. It was always something, and people were always cautious, and Peter was always trying so hard to be put everyone's worries to rest. But this past year? He's been weird, and he's been great. He's saved people, he's mended and created relationships, he's aced his Practice SATs and ACTs. He's joined the Avengers, for fuck's sake. And through it all, he's begun to fill that hole that's been growing since the dawn of his existence. For the first time in his life, everything's been kind of all right. Telling Mr. Stark about his "issue" could ruin all of that.

It's something he's dreaded since forever; gaining something, only to later lose it. And he's lost the suit once. If he loses it now, who's to say that he'll ever get it back?

He doesn't want that. He doesn't want to lose the freedom, the friendships that he's made, the opportunities he's been given. But he needs to get this out. Because if something should happen by his own hand, he needs to know that he did attempt to reach out.

And he's reaching out.

"It was just the sleeping at first", he says quietly, picking at a loose thread on his sweater. "Nightmares, lots of nightmares, way more than I've ever had in a single night. And if it was just that, I think I could have handled it."  
Mr. Stark nods. "But there's more", he guesses. He pours himself another drink and considers Peter with an indecipherable eye. And Peter knows he's chosen the right person. Mr. Stark's experienced the bad, the horrible, and the worst; he knows how shitty the life is, knows that, more often than not, the effort of the job outweighs the good it produces. And for many years, he was the only Avenger. He was the only one that could comprehend the weight of the job. Now, there are others, but there will never be another who'll understand what it means to be the world's sole protector.

Now, there's Peter. Peter, who's afraid that the job is as likely to kill him as he could it. And, looking at the lineup, maybe that's just the Avenger moto; they're all just a band of anguished, remorseful misfits, fighting the bad guys because they're not yet ready to face their own bad. Nothing but a bunch of fuckups trying to make up for one or one hundred mistakes.

Of course, they've all allies; amongst the team itself or their own friends, the other Avengers have a support network that'll pick em up. Be it the end of the world or a date gone wrong, they have their people. In that way, Peter has only Mr. Stark. Maybe someday, there'll be others; maybe Aunt May and the gang. Maybe.

In the meantime, Mr. Stark is watching him again. His eyes are full of concern and empathy, like he's forgotten that he's supposed to not care. Peter smiles, rubs the side of his nose, and crosses his legs like he's back in kindergarten.

"When I killed the Doc", he says, ignoring the expression that Mr. Stark pulls. "I think something passed between us. Something that bounded him to me."

"What-"  
"I've been...having problems: random moments of rage, memories that don't belong to me, lost time; it's like." He huffs and clenches his hands. "It's like there's...something inside me, and it's honestly scaring the crap out of me." He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "I don't know what's happening to me. And I don't know how to make it stop."

For a moment, Mr. Stark is still, watching him. Then he places a hand over his mouth and looks away. Karen's talking in Peter's ear, reassuring him that J.A.R.V.I.S. is likely doing the same and that everything will be okay. Peter remains in his seat, firmly pressed into the cushions of the couch, and waits.

Once Mr. Stark's collected himself, he wipes his palms against his pants and looks back to Peter. "Okay", he says, and the word sounds punched out him. "So you think a part of the Octopus is in... your head?"  
"Yes." Something stabs him at the base of his neck, and he flinches. Mr. Stark's eyes widen. "No. I mean, I don't know. I just." He takes his head in his hands and whispers, "Something's wrong with me."

"Hey, hey, hey." Mr. Stark rises from the ottoman to take a seat beside Peter. Pausing to allow Peter time to adjust to his presence, he then lays a hand on his shoulder; Peter won't meet his eyes, instead choosing to focus on the cream carpeting beneath their feet. "All right, just-just listen to me", Mr. Stark says softly. "Now, I don't what this is, but we're gonna figure it out. Okay? You're gonna be fine."  
"I could hurt somebody", Peter says to the floor. "There are moments where I don't remember doing things and moments when I just wanna break something; if they ever overlap-"  
"Peter. I'm not gonna let you or anyone else get hurt. We're going to figure this out, and we're going to help you. I just need you to calm down."  
Peter's head jerks up; tears have begun to gather in his eyes, and his face is a deep shade of red. He gulps, shakes his head, and slams his hand against the table beside him; it shatters beneath his strength, but he continues, undeterred. "'Calm down'", he shouts. Mr. Stark stares at him, and Peter bites his lip. Lowering his voice just something just below a whisper, he says, "There's a homicidal maniac trying to steal my body. And you want me to calm down?"

"Okay, poor choice of words", Mr. Stark admits, scratching his beard. "But you being this worked up isn't gonna help anyone. You've said it yourself: this guy is projecting his emotions onto you; he uses that to disorient you and to take control. If you keep going the way you've been going, how hard do you think it'll be for him to take advantage?"

Peter opens his mouth to answer. He seems to consider this, eyes staring pleadingly at Mr. Stark.

He gives Peter's shoulder a squeeze. His gaze falls behind Peter, to the mess of shattered glass and fractured wood; J.A.R.V.I.S. is sitting in his ears, wondering if he should make preparations for the Loki and Hulk Suite.

Peter wonders if they know he can hear them.

Admittedly, though, it's the least of their worries.

"What am I gonna do", Peter asks, looking back up at him.

Mr. Stark grinds his teeth, murmurs a quick "Yes" to J.A.R.V.I.S., and brushes away a drop of wine on his lips. He then stands and gestures for Peter to do the same. "You", he says, pointing to Peter. "Are going to call May and tell her you've gotta spend the next few days here. No school, no Snaptweets, no crime fighting, nothing. Imma call in a favor from a friend-"  
"Is it Thor?"  
"To have a look at you; seems like something in his ballpark. Maybe Bruce but word is he's still kicking it in space so." He taps his fingers against his ear and nods. Then he smirks and raises an eyebrow at Peter. "No fangirling this time, you got me? The others are still giving me crap for that fiasco at the airport."  
Peter nods. The pressure sitting upon his chest alleviates, and he sighs, rubbing at his collarbone. "Yeah, yeah, definitely." He smiles up at Mr. Stark and wraps his arms around himself. "Thank you."  
Mr. Stark smiles back, pulls him in for a brief side hug, then walks towards the door. "I'll be back in just a second", he explains, walking backwards. "We're gonna get this sorted out." He then rounds the corner, and Peter's left alone.

Or almost alone.

The moment Mr. Stark leaves, Peter's entire body runs cold, and he loses function of his limbs. He stumbles forward, specks of green dotting his vision, and closes his eyes as he awaits the approaching ground.

But it never comes.

Instead, his hands shoot out in front of him, and his body propels itself onto the nearest wall. Struggling to catch his breath, Peter stares down at his hands and feet; he opens his mouth to call out for Mr. Stark, but all that comes out is a ghastly laugh.

"Finally."

His eyes flashing green, Peter crawls beside the couch to observe the broken table; he slides his fingers beneath the glass, snickering when several shards knick his fingers. Streams of blood trail down his fingers, and he stands, walks to the kitchen door, and pokes his head around the corner.

"Mr. Parker", J.A.R.V.I.S. calls from above. "Mr. Stark has instructed you to call your Aunt and inform her of your new living arrangements."  
Peter nods and begins the walk through the corridor. "Of course. I just have to stop at my home for a moment. There's something in my room that I believe will assist Tony in my treatment."

J.A.R.V.I.S. doesn't say anything for several seconds. Then, speaking as if he's trekking on glass, he acquiesces: "Very well. But please do return soon. Mr. Stark is adamant that you exercise caution whilst in your current...condition."  
"Absolutely." Peter pauses before the elevator and presses the button. The doors open, and he steps inside, a crooked smile settling upon his face. "I wouldn't dream of going against his orders." With that, he presses the button of the lowest level and hums.

It's a quick ride to the bottom.


	6. Captured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aunt May has something she wants to say, Michelle's suspicious (worried), and Tony's getting a little impatient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya, guys. So I'm a dumbass. I mentioned this in a comment earlier, but this fic is a roughly halfway done. This fic was showing up as a 5/5 complete because I forgot to change it to unfinished. Sorry if anyone thought Pete/Doc leaving Tony's was the ending cause it's not. This author's just an idiot.   
> On another note, this'll be the last chapter where things are "normal". Next chap, if I'm recalling my draft correctly, will be seen through another character's eyes. Same goes for next Saturday's update, and both of them, like this, will be slightly longer than the average chapter. Just slightly. All right, that's enough chat. Let's get into the fic.

When he comes to, he's seated in his room with a frozen plate of spaghetti in his hands. He doesn't know why he's home, and he doesn't know why the spaghetti is frozen. He just knows the Doc is gone and that it's a quarter to three in the morning.

Where did the day go?

Carefully placing the plate on his pillow, Peter stands from his bed and walks into the living room. Aunt May's sitting on the couch, her own plate of frozen spaghetti sitting precariously in her lap. She's got her fuzzy bunny slippers kicked up on the arm of the couch, and she's staring at her fingers. When she notices Peter staring in the doorway, she smiles, sits up, and swivels her feet to the floor.

"Peter", she calls out, dislodging her plate; it clatters to the floor, and Peter winces. She doesn't seem to notice neither the plate nor his reaction. "Come sit with me."  
Peter crosses the room and sits on the other end of the couch. His eyes dip to the ground, then back to her. "Why are we eating frozen spaghetti?"  
Aunt May sneezes into her arm. Without pause, Peter reaches for the ice pack sitting on the table and hands it to her. She smiles once more and places the pack on her head. "Oh, that's better", she murmurs before a frown overwhelms her features. "You must be catching my cold. The spaghetti was your idea."  
Peter sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "It was?"  
"Yeah. You, ah, came home this afternoon with fifteen or so bags of pasta and tomato paste. Which." She chuckles and shakes her head; tossing an arm over the back of the couch, she considers Peter with a worried yet amused eye. "You know, which is funny for a lot of reasons. One being that you hate tomato paste and another other being that, a few weeks ago, you told me you wanted a break from spaghetti."  
"Right. But why is it frozen?"  
"Your guess is as good as mine. You seemed pretty into it, though. You had, like, six plates before you left for your room." Shifting the ice pack to the back of her neck, Aunt May hums and props her head up on a hand. "They say sleep deprivation can really screw a person up, but this is beyond any horror stories I've ever heard of." At the confused stare that this draws, she giggles. "A little tip if you ever wanna stay up past your 'bedtime': turn the lights out; makes the act all the more convincing."

Peter laughs and ducks his head. It's weird; having such a laidback conversation when his life is crumbling to pieces. He's watching the stark contrast between his two worlds and wondering just when did he take on a second mask?

Peter's always had the sense of living as two separate entities, but it's never been quite this intense before. How ironic is it that he should feel such a way after the Doc's taken control of his body?

"Peter", Aunt May says from her side of the couch. "I was a teenager once, you know."  
He raises an eyebrow. Uncertain of what to say, he huffs and jokes, "Well, I figured. You're not a robot."  
She rolls her eyes, snatches one of the throw pillows underneath her arm, and tosses it at him. Peter catches it with ease, smiling as he lowers it from his face.

"All right, so you were a teen", he says, turning the pillow over in his hands. "Is this the part where you tell me about all the shenanigans and tomfoolery you got up to?"

"Peter, I'm thirty-five, not seventy. And I'm serious." She shrugs and rolls up the sleeve of her shirt; imprinted on her skin is a shooting star with a scowl that'd bring Oscar the Grouch to tears. "Senior year, '99", she explains with an eye roll. "The world was ending, and everyone was losing their shit. Me, being the awesomely edgy nineteen year old that I was, thought it'd be great to get this monstrosity as my last 'fuck you' to the universe."  
Peter smiles. "You were drunk."  
"Roaring drunk, absolutely wasted. And stupid. But." She lifts a finger and slides her ice pack to the side of her neck. Pressing against the skin there, she sighs and closes her eyes. "I was so sure of myself; walked right into that parlor, flipped through their magazines, and picked the first tat I saw. It didn't matter that it was the ugliest thing I'd ever seen. We were all gonna die, and I wanted to leave thinking that I was an adult, that I could make my own choices without anyone's help." Aunt May inhales and reaches out to drop the ice pack back on the table; it lands with a heavy clank, and a puddle of water spreads from underneath it. Folding her legs underneath her, she wipes her damp palms on her thighs, then raises her hands to pull her hair back into a braid. "It was my way of grieving, you know? Immature and insignificant, maybe. But it was my decision. And in deciding to run off and spend my last hours in a seedy tattoo parlor, I was able to also decide that I wasn't gonna die alone."

Upstairs, someone shouts and curses; something crashes against their ceiling, followed by several new cracks appearing in the plaster. It looks kinda nice, like fissures opening up in the ground.

"But you didn't die", Peter murmurs as he stares at the ceiling. He lifts a finger and traces along the cracks, watching as puffs of smoke erupt the plaster. "The day ended, but the world didn't."

"Well, yeah", she snorts, waving her arm at him. "And I've got this to show for it. But that's not my point." She points and stares at him; there's no trace of humor left in her eyes, just the rigidness and concern that only a parent can cast at a child. "Peter, I don't know what's going on with you. And I can't make you tell me, I know that. You have the right. But you're killing yourself."  
"Aunt May-"  
"You're at home more often, but you spend most of that time in your room. You hardly ever see your friends; you don't eat, you don't sleep, and, I swear, it's like you're not even here sometimes." She leans forward and releases a frustrated huff. "You close yourself off, and it's because you think you can take care of yourself and that you don't need to press your problems onto other people. Right?" When this prompts a blush from Peter, Aunt May nods and stretches a hand out to Peter; he takes it.

"Like I said", she continues. "I was your age once. I get it. People get hurt, or you hurt people, and you isolate yourself because you don't wanna deal with the fallout. But take it from someone who knows: dealing with the fallout is better than pretending like it never happened and turning into a hobbit."

"It's not like that."  
"Well, whatever it's like, you can't keep bottling this up. This lone ranger thing? It ends with you being alone. And, trust me, that's not a good thing."  
Peter wiggles his fingers. The cold feeling from before is back, but it's different; not so much walking into a blizzard in nothing but his boxers, but more so stepping into a meat locker. He shivers and turns around. There's a blanket draped over the back of the couch. It's worn and tattered with use, but it smells of home and warmth. Pulling the blanket around his shoulders, Peter sinks further into the cushions of the couch and looks at Aunt May. "I'm trying", he eventually says. "I know everything seems weird right now, and maybe I do a lot of stuff that doesn't make sense. But I am trying. For now, I just gotta...I gotta." Peter sniffles, rubs the bottom of his nose on across his arm, and smiles. "I gotta find my own butt ugly tattoo."

Aunt May smiles back at him; there's a fresh sheen of sweat clinging to her forehead, and her hair looks like wet dog fur. She looks better than she has in weeks. Years even. "You do your own thing, Peter", she says, reaching out to mess up his hair. "Just don't go it alone. Okay?"  
He nods. "Yeah, okay." The cold is creeping into the deepest recessions of his mind. Just as his limbs have begun to loosen with defeat, a warmth floods his bloodstream, and he's okay. He knows he's fucked, but, for the moment, everything's calm and safe and just so very happy; he doesn't want to ruin it.

"Aunt May?"  
She turns to face him. "Yeah?"

"After the world didn't, you know, go up in flames. What'd you do?"

Aunt May beams; she tugs back the sleeve of her arm and giggles. "My Ben took me back to the parlor."  
Peter frowns and raises his eyebrows. "He try to get it removed or something?"  
"No, he had me get this one." She juts out her left arm, brandishing the shooting star along her bicep; this one's smiling, though it has a slightly better looking Phil Face.

Peter covers his hand with his mouth, smirks, and looks up at her. "If I ever get a tattoo, will you help me pick out the design?"  
"Definitely."

. . .

There's an Iron Man suit sitting at the foot of his bed when he wakes up.

Peter's instinct is to hop from his bed, swing out of his room, and find Aunt May. Before he can do any of that, the suit lifts an arm and aims its palm at Peter's chest. Eyes glowing a pure white, the suit flies closer, and its left arm joins the right.

"Morning, kid", Mr. Stark's voice greets cooly. "Have a good sleep?"  
"I can explain", Peter starts with a wince. "I was-"  
"You don't have to explain anything. It's my fault. I knew the situation, and I left you alone anyway. I'm not gonna make that mistake again." He pauses to stare at Peter for a second. His eyes flicker to his glowing palms, then back to Peter. "Level with me, kid. Do I need to use these?"

Peter swings his feet over the side of his bed and drops his hands beside himself. "I don't know", he says with a sigh.

"Well, if you had to guess. Is he... around right now?"  
Peter presses his fingertips into the base of his neck; there are no spikes of pain, and the prevailing, polar whispers have disappeared. "I don't think so."  
"All right. Good." The suit lowers its arms, crashes to the floor, and proceeds to approach him.

From the other room, something shatters, and Aunt May squeals. "Peter! What was that?"  
"Uh, nothing, Aunt May! I just dropped one of my textbooks." He slides off of his bed, snatches his backpack from underneath his bed, and folds his arms over his chest.  
"She know the situation", Mr. Stark asks; he steps forward and out of the suit, rolling back his shoulders and craning his neck. His joints pop, and he sighs. There are dark spaces beneath his eyes; he's got marks against his face, like he'd falling asleep against something. He looks like he got about as good a sleep as Peter last night.

"Yeah. She doesn't like it, but she understands. I think." Peter yawns and rubs at the corners of his eyes. In his pocket, his phone chimes and vibrates against his thigh, buzzing off his remaining grogginess. The chime is low-pitched, followed by the sound of humming bees. It's distinct, chosen, like the other contacts in his phone, to alert him of the caller's identity.

It's MJ. She's never called him before.

"Hey, Mr. Stark." He inhales and taps his foot against the floor. "Before we leave I've gotta go to the bathroom."  
Mr. Stark gives him a pointed look. "The bathroom?"  
"Possessed or not, it's morning, and I've got a routine", Peter defends with a shrug. He makes to step around him, but Mr. Stark follows him, arms crossed over his chest. "Mr. Stark."  
"You ran off on me yesterday", he says with narrowed eyes. "I know it wasn't something you could control, but it happened. I'm not letting you out of my sight."  
Peter pulls a face. "But I have to pee."  
Mr. Stark's scowl deepens into a near pout.

"What, like that's not the first thing you do in the morning?"

He sighs and drops onto Peter's bed, waving an inexpressive hand at him. "Fine. Go do your shit. You've got six minutes."  
"'Course. Thanks." With that, Peter creeps out of his room and into the nearby bathroom. Closing the door behind him, he pulls Karen's earpiece from his ear, places it on the sink, and walks to the window. He taps the band on his wrist, and his suit envelopes him. Within seconds, he's shrugged his book bag onto his back, crawled out the window, and swung to the nearest building.

. . .

Going to school may not be the best course of action, but it's the only one Peter's willing to pursue. His lethargy's returned by a tenfold, so much so that he can barely make the journey to Midtown. About halfway through, he nearly slams into a Little Debbie's truck, so he opts to take the rest of the way by Uber. Needless to say, it's a rather strange ride, but it's worth not falling asleep mid-swing and winding up a splatter of red and blue on somebody's windshield.

Class has already started by the time Peter ascends the steps and enters the building. He gets a tardy slip, a scolding, the usual pleasantries, then is allowed to pass.

Halfway past nine means it's approaching third period. "That's Lit III", Peter murmurs as he stops by his locker to grab his copy of Night. Once he has the copy, he shoves it into his bag and rushes to the third floor.

They're in the middle of partner reading; when MJ spots her partner entering the room, a range of emotions flickers across her face. As she takes a seat, he sees she's eventually settled on simmering anger.

"I could just kill you right now", she hisses, shoving her notes to him. "You got any idea how worried we were?"  
"I know, I know." Peter accepts the notes with poise, even though he has no intent to use them. MJ must notice this because she scowls, takes them back, and closes her book. As her glare begins to heaten, Peter sighs, turns his body to her, and twirls a hand through the air. "I'm fine", he insists under his breath. "And I'm here now, so can we just move on?"  
"Um, no?" MJ lowers her eyes to her notebook, doodling aggressive smiley faces in the margins. "You ditched school, Ned wasn't talking, and when I called your Aunt, she said you went to get a pack of Skittles and never came back. And we're just supposed to pretend like none of that happened?"

Peter gives her a sheepish smile; pulling his copy of Night out of his bookbag, he looks away and flips to a random page. "Yes?"  
"No." She continues glaring, only yielding when she notices the paleness in Peter's face. She sighs, tears a hole in her paper, and bites her lip. "Come, Peter. What's going on?"

"Nothing." When this draws another scowl from her, Peter huffs, pushes his book away, and looks up. He opens his hands to her and lifts his eyes to meet hers. They look worried. "MJ, look. I'm fine, really. I just got some things I got to take care of, and it's making things a little weird." He raises a finger to chew on its nail, closes his eyes, and taps his fingers against his desk. "I gotta take some time off."  
"Okay. Okay." Mr. Rogmen shushes them at his desk; Peter flushes red, and MJ's eyes dart to her lap. She ducks her head, taps her boot once, twice, and lowers her voice. "Just tell us next time. We didn't know what happened to you." Her shoulders turn tense and creep up to her ears. "Are you okay?"

Peter retrieves a pencil from his pocket and shrugs. The cold is returning, but it's mostly dormant, manifesting only as a light shiver. "I'm fine", he says, running his hands along his arms. "My head's just not in a good spot right now."  
MJ looks up from her lap to stare at him. Her eyes are soft, the heat behind them long since resided. "Why'd you come back? Shouldn't you be at home or something?"

"Yeah, maybe. But I didn't wanna leave without seeing you guys."  
She holds his stare for a moment, her features distorted with discomfort, then turns back to doodling. She releases her hair from its ponytail, the resulting curls shielding her from his insistent stare. "But you're not feeling okay", she eventually protests. "You shouldn't be worrying about other people." From behind her hair, her eyes flick back to Peter's. "Not that I, uh, we don't appreciate it but, uh-"  
"MJ?"  
"Yeah?"  
Peter stabs his pencil into his palm. His face is red. "I get it."  
"Oh. Okay." MJ smiles and pushes a wave of curls behind her ear. With her free hand, she reaches out in search of his. She falters just inches away and looks back up at him. Peter nods and meets her halfway.

They're not exactly holding hands; it's more like two awkward fish placed on top of each other, neither wanting to acknowledge the other. But they're there nonetheless, and the gesture seems to comfort MJ as much as it does Peter.

"You called me earlier", he says, eyes actively avoiding their hands.

MJ shifts in her seat. "Yeah."  
"You said you don't like phone calls. That it's why you always text and email and stuff."  
"Yup."  
"But you called me."  
"Cause I was worried, dumbass, I thought we covered that."

Peter taps the fingers of his free hand against his desk and hums. "You're pretty spiteful for someone who's worried about me."  
MJ snorts and bumps her shoulder against his. Sparks race along his ribcage, and, for a moment, the world bleeds green. He gulps, clenches his free hand into a fist, and tucks his head into the crook of his neck. MJ stares at him with curious eyes, curling her fingers over the back of his hand.

"What", he asks with a befuddled blink.  
"Your...your eyes." She leans over her desk to stare more closely at them. "They were green."

Peter scoots his chair back and shakes his head. The sparks come back, and his eyes burn. MJ scoots closer; she's still holding his hand. "There it is again."  
"It's nothing, really", he murmurs. Flash has turned around in his seat and is staring at them. His eyes dart to their hands, and a smug grin creeps onto his face. Peter places his hand beside his face and turns back to MJ. "Please, don't make this a big deal."  
She nods, though her face is open with confusion. Peter turns their hands onto their sides and embraces her fingers with his own. MJ looks away, face scrunched up in uncertainty, and makes a ticking noise with her tongue.

"I'll explain later", he promises. "Just be cool."  
"Okay, okay. I can be cool."  
"You're never cool."  
MJ slaps her book against his shoulder, then turns to the door. Peter looks past her and extends his neck. One of the senior science teachers is standing in the doorway, talking to Mr. Rogmen. Even from here, it's easy to make out, "Peter" and "Emergency contact" and "extended leave".

"MJ", Peter whispers. "I need to get out of here."  
Her eyes dart to the doorway, then back to him. She hesitates as if she wants to object. Whatever uncertainties she has, she pushes them aside and nods, rising from her seat without question.

"I'll be expecting a phone call", she says before sauntering over to the two teachers.

Peter smiles, jumps from his seat, and rushes to the back door. Several heads have swiveled his way, but by then, he's already gone.

Sure enough, there's another one of Mr. Stark's suits waiting on the opposite end of the hall. It doesn't seem to notice him at first, but a single footstep in the opposite direction has it turning around and aiming its palms at him.

"We've gotta stop meeting like this", Mr. Stark says as he rounds the corner.

Another violent shiver afflicts Peter, and something pricks against the backs of his eyes. Swaying with the grace of a drunken giraffe, Peter blinks, rears his head backwards, and flashes him a manic smile. The suit powers up the lasers in its palms, and Tony reaches for something in his jacket.

"Peter?", Tony asks, searching his face for any sign of sanity. "Is that you?"  
Peter rocks backwards and forwards on his heels; folding his hands behind his back, he shrugs and says, "'Course, Tony. Who else would I be?"  
Tony purses his lips and whispers something to J.A.R.V.I.S.. Then he takes a step forward, his suit maneuvering to settle over him. "You remember what we talked about. It's time we get back to the Tower and get to work on your treatment."  
Peter shakes his head. "I don't need any treatment. I'm perfectly fine."  
"Really? Cause yesterday, you seemed to think just the opposite."  
"That?" He waves a hand and laughs. "An overreaction, I'm afraid. Must be nerves, me being a high schooler and all."  
"Right." Tony grabs him by the shoulders, the pressure just bordering on painful; it's kind of nice, grounding even. "It's time to go."  
"Oh, I don't think so. I've still got a day of classes left. Gotta keep those grades up." Before Tony can reply, Peter takes hold of the crimson hands on his shoulders; the smile falls from his face, and his eyes flash green. A chill wafts over from him to Tony, sliding through the miniscule crevices of the suit. "You're in my bubble", he tells Tony with a frosty stare. "I'd gladly appreciate it if you removed yourself from it." With that, he tosses the hands into Tony's chest and turns to the nearest window. He jumps out, elbows crossing in front of his face, and crashes through the glass. He lands in the courtyard with a groan. From behind, he can hear rockets roaring to life.

Peter ducks behind a pillar, slaps his wristband, and swings away. He's just launched himself over a billboard for Pine Sol when a beam of light rushes past him. In the moment that he's taken to stare, Tony has flown up to him and enclosed him in his arms.

"Listen to me, you little freak", he hisses into Peter's ear as he begins the flight to his Tower. "I don't know what the fuck you think you're doing, but it's over."

Peter growls, squirming in Tony's iron grasp, and cranes his neck around to glare at him. "That's right, oaf", he hisses, his voice tinted with venom. "You don't know anything. So stay the fuck out of my business and leave me alone." With that, he aims twists his hand around and shoots a wad of webbing into Tony's left rocket. The rocket sputters, and Tony falters for but a moment. In the pause, Peter juts back a foot, propels himself from his arms, and swings to onto the nearest rooftop.

"It became my business the moment you started wearing my friend", Tony says before launching a blast at him. "Get out before I make you get out."

Peter swiftly leaps over the blast, landing in a squat on top of an abandoned AC unit. "Trust me, this isn't exactly an enjoyable experience for me", he retorts; he then webbs a net that imprisons Tony against a bricked wall. When he sees the man struggling against the substance, his eyes flare with contentment. His head rises a little higher. "I was finding Parker's webbing to be a tad bit underwhelming", he explains, placing a hand on his hip. "It's amazing what a little concentration and 'borrowed goods' can accomplish."

"You're really gonna bring him into this", Tony snarls; beneath the webbing, his palms glow a fierce orange, eager to burn through the silky cage. But his palms are glued to the wall, as are the bottoms of his feet. He has but his mouth and his eyes at his dispense, but he'll be damned if he lets either go to waste. "He's a kid for fuck's sake. He's got a life, family, friends, dreams. And you're just gonna steal it all from him?"  
"I didn't ask for this", Peter murmurs. He rubs a hand against the underside of his neck and closes his eyes. "I didn't ask for any of this. I just-"  
"Newsflash, four arms, I don't fucking care", Tony seethes. His repulsor nodes are flaring again; the light emitting from them is enough to make Peter take a step back. But he doesn't leave.

"You think I wanted this? To be trapped in this tiny, pitiful body?" He places a hand on his chest and shakes his head. "I almost died, Stark. And trust me, as a man who's almost died before, I'd never willingly put myself in that position." He approaches Tony once more, ignoring the tingling sensation in the back of his head, and stares up at him. "Do you know what it's like", he questions, dragging a fingernail against the man's cheek; blood draws, and he winces, his eyes slamming shut. "To almost die?"

Peter drags his finger higher, his nail precariously close to Tony's eyes. As he's pressing down against an eyelash, something chirps from within Tony's cocoon; a cord shoots from the webbing and wraps around Peter's waist. He looks up at Tony and glares, his hands scrambling to free himself.

"Next time you wanna monologue", Tony says as he rotates his hands and fries his cage of webbing. "Make sure your prisoner's actually, you know, imprisoned. Or better yet, knock 'em out."

Before Peter can growl in indignation, a current of electricity passes through the cord, stuns his limbs, and renders him unconscious.

Tony sighs, does a quick scan of the crumbled body before him, and lowers into a squat. He lifts Peter into his arms and brushes the hair out of his eyes.

Funny. He hadn't noticed Peter had begun to grow it out.

"J, buddy." He launches off the ground and begins the flight to Stark Tower. "Tell Thor to get his people here; Pete's in trouble."


	7. Mary Alice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flaaaaaaashback.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, peoples. So, like I said last time, this chapter will mainly take place from someone else's perspective. It's a bit weird, and I was kinda nervous about posting it, wondering or not it was necessary in terms of the fic. BUT I like how it came out so here it is. If anyone peeps any typos, do be sure to let me know, and I'll try to fix em before the next update.   
> Now, it's flashback time.

His watch reads 1:03.

Another late day at the lab. Mother would be upset, would swat him with a ruler and say he's getting too old for this kind of thing. And she wouldn't be wrong. He's pushing forty, and decades of nights spent researching and journaling have taken their wear on his body. She'd hate seeing him like this; nothing but aches and tears channeled into the form a jaded man.

"If you'd've just listened to me", he can hear picture her saying with fretful eyes. "You'd live to be eighty and be in tip-top shape. But of course, you had to be stubborn. You'll be lucky if you're spared another decade."

Of course, mother's dead now; rotting with a gathering collection of dead roses and dainty spiderwebs. The most she can do now is terrorize him in his sleep.

For the moment, there are papers to be written and research to be done. There are things to discover, sciences to learn, and people to help. Sleep can always come later.

"Octavius."

He glances up from his station, fingers tautly clenched around his pencil, and swivels his head to the right.

Several stations down, Martins has stood from her chair and begun gathering her things. She slides a red hat onto her head, then nods at him. "I'm heading home for the night", she says as she begins the walk down the aisle.

He grunts, and his eyes dart back down to his report. He can hear her heels clicking along the porcelain tiles.

He used to walk her home. They used to walk along these floors together.

"Good luck with the arms", Martins murmurs as she hurries past him. Just as she's passed his desk, he looks up and reaches out for her. She pauses, her lips pursing.

He gulps, brushes a hand against the back of his head, and glances at her heels. Further up, her bare, exposed legs extend from her skirt. He frowns, grunting once more, and looks up to meet her eyes for the first time in months. "Kinda cold out to not have your legs covered", he mumbles, shuffling in his seat.

Martins drapes her coat in front of her legs and scowls. "Why are you looking at my legs?"

A light flush skitters across his cheeks. "I, uh, wasn't. I just-"  
"Whatever." Her own face a deep shade of red, Martins adjusts the strap of her purse and turns to leave. "See you Monday, Octavius."  
"Mary Alice, wait." He surges from his seat, nearly tripping over his feet in the process. Several of the papers accumulated on his desk fall in his wake, drifting to the ground like two-dimensional doves. He wipes a hand over his face and drops to his knees.

Martins is still there.

"That's a lot of papers", she notes; she sounds uncomfortable. He wishes that weren't so.

"I've been busy", he retorts, scooping a pile into a stack. Martins lowers into a squat and gathers a pile of her own. He looks up, and she passes the papers to him.

He should say something. He should explain, tell her about his mother and her disapproval and just what that meant to him. Tell her how very vital the Arms were to him, to the world, and how, somehow, they begun to weigh more than her. Tell her how everything had become so twisted and discombobulated that he could place one love of his life over the other.

She's staring at him, eyes soft and open in a way that they haven't been since that night in Lady Liberty's torch. Now's the perfect time, and he should make something of it.

"Thank you", he says in a tight voice. Martins nods and continues to stare. He looks away and rises to his feet. He turns his back to her and shoves the papers into an unmarked folder.

Her heels clack closer. "Otto…" Fingers soft like silk fall upon his shoulder; they travel north, settling upon his neck, and flip his collar down. They linger as they are, and he doesn't push them away. He should push them away, push her away, but he doesn't want to.

Say something, he tells himself.

Martins squeezes. Her shampoo, smelling of vanilla and cherries, washes over him.

"You're welcome", Mary Alice says.

Then she turns and leaves, her heels click-clacking away as she rounds the corner and begins her descent down the stairs.

It's only when the laboratory falls silent does he turn around. When he does, he's finds the room silent and empty.

He's never really had a friend before. Both his parents are dead, and he never knew his other family. Childhood was a lonely, suffocating experience; he spent most of it wishing for adulthood to come sooner, dreaming of companions and someone to hold and be held by. Only, now it is adulthood, and it hasn't fared much better. These days, the mere thought of speaking to someone warrants distress. And the one chance he had at romance has literally just left the building. He's never really had anyone before, never had much in the way of relationships. But it's only now has he ever felt truly and utterly alone.

When he leaves, it's a quarter to three, and his eyes have begun to droop. He gathers his items methodically and takes the escalator to the adjoining parking lot. It's dark there, as it always is, but he's too exhausted to get worked up over it tonight. He just walks to his Ford and tosses his bag through the passenger window.

As he's working his keys into the door, footsteps echo throughout the lot. He glances up from the door and gives the lot a quick lookover. In the far corner, just beside the sign stating the speed limit, there rests a cherry red Corvette.

Corvette. Lewis.

Lewis waves and whistles at him. "Hey, Octopus", he calls out. "How's life?"  
He narrows his eyes and crawls into his car. "Go to hell, Lewis." He slides a cassette into his recorder; unlike most nights, he doesn't bother checking if it's Mary Alice's. Lewis is still sitting there, watching with those knowing, mocking eyes of his. Turning the radio's knob until the car's frame begins to vibrate, he looks away and pulls out of the parking lot.

It's a snowy night. Freckles of white drift from the sky and float about the city like the contents of a shaken snow globe. And pretty may it be, it makes traffic a bitch. He spends twenty minutes sitting on the corner of the laboratory before parking and leaving in pursuit of a ride.

No cabs are running because of the storm, and the buses have been delayed. The closest bus won't arrive for next to an hour, and it's far too cold to be standing still for so long.

As he cuts through an alleyway to a nearby park, he thinks of Mary Alice in that dress of hers. She has her coat, sure, but it won't cover her legs. It's a wonder, he thinks, that someone so organized could go to work in such inappropriate attire. Perhaps she woke up late and rushed out of her house, grabbing the first coat her fingers grasped. Maybe she forgot to check the weather. Or it could be that, with all her projects and worries, the cold just doesn't bother Mary Alice.

Of course, speculating won't do any good. Not now. Not after he's sent her away again.

He pauses, standing before an statue of a Native American man, and inhales. The air smells of something frigid and bitter, though that might just be him.

It's winter in New York City. This time last year, he'd been with Mary Alice at the fair; eating cotton candy and riding in giant teacups and getting drunk off eggnog. Like now, he froze his ass of. But he'd been happy. Happy and light and so very in love.

Now, he looks at the falling snow and wishes the moon would fall from the sky and crush him.

"Octopus."

Footsteps, again. Only there's more than one pair.

He turns around and finds Lewis standing just a few feet away. Beside him stands Williams and Moot. All wear a pair of grins that are anything but comical.

"Gentleman", he greets. He has only a receipt from McDonald's and a pen on him. What a fine night this is shaping out to be.

"I was just telling the fellas about you", Lewis says as he and his group draw closer. There's a cigarette dangling from his lips, burning a fierce red against the white out surrounding them. It'd be comforting if its smoker weren't a massive asshole. "You remember Williams and Moot, don't you?"  
"'Course. They're the guys that ruined the prototype for my Arms."  
"Yes, yes, but you got the job done anyway. So it doesn't really matter."  
He glares. "I suppose not." The wind whips furiously, his hat threatening to be blow away. He places a firm hand atop his head and makes to step around them. "I'd better be going. My bus is-"  
"The buses aren't running, old buddy, old pal." The three close in around him. Lewis has an elbow propped up on his shoulder.

"It's a different bus", he murmurs in return, brushing him off. "You wouldn't know it. I really should be leaving." Moot and Williams block him once more, and he flushes red. "Guys, can we not do this tonight? I'm tired, it's cold, and I haven't eaten in hours. I just wanna go home and be alone."  
"Alone? Octopus, not sure if you've noticed or not, but you've always been alone." Lewis spins him around to face him, and, all at once, the humor's left his eyes.

And maybe he should be afraid. Lewis is obviously drunk, as always, but he's got an easy sixty pounds on him, not to mention the two walls of muscle at his side. As he's become increasingly aware, they're in a rather secluded section of the park, and the wind's roaring loudly enough to draw out any noise. He's in danger in a way that he hasn't been since he was a child. And yet the only thing he can think of is Lewis's words and, for once, how wrong they are.

"Not always", he says back. The words have barely passed his lips before three pairs of hands reach forward and shove him to the ground. On the way down, his temple slams into the bottom of a park bench. A trail of blood dribbles down the side of his head and into the snow. In his developing legarthy, he dips a finger into the puddle and stares. Red on white.

It kinda looks nice.

"You always thought you was better than me", Lewis taunts as he crouches beside him. Above them, a moonbeam peaks through the curtain of clouds and bounces off of Lewis's glass eye. An eyelid closes over the glass, and he smiles. "You always thought you was better than me", Lewis taunts as he crouches beside him.

"I don't think I'm better than anyone." He presses a finger to the side of his head and winces. It's a lot of blood.

Lewis snatches hold of his hair and sneers. "You were the smartest, the best in our company", he hisses, tugging just enough to draw a whimper from him. "You had all the ideas, all the resources. Hell, you even had the girl. Now, look at you." Lewis drags a fingernail down the side of his cheek, smirking as more blood pours from the man. "You haven't completed an assignment in months, and we all know how pissy Dains is getting about them Arms of yours. You look and smell like ass, and nobody." He giggles and lowers his hands to press against his throat. "Nobody likes you. Not even Miss Mary Alice, who seems to have finally come to her senses and realized what a shitstain you are."

"That's enough, Mikey."

All four men turn and peer through the snow. A figure's rushing up the path, their identity cloaked by the thick blanket of white covering the park. Even before the clickety-clackety song of her heels pierces the air, he knows who it is.

"This is brutal, Mikey", the person calls out. They pull back the hood of their white coat and scowl at the three standing men. "Even for a fuckhead like you." Mary Alice reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a vial of what he knows to be perfume. And he should know.

He bought it for her for her birthday.

"Sis, the creep's getting what he deserves." Nonetheless, he takes a step away from him and gestures for his guys to do the same.

"He's not a creep, and he doesn't deserve any of this." She taps her heel once, twice, and raises her voice. "Let him go, Mikey."  
Lewis flicks a hand at Williams and Moot, and the two fade into the storm. He steps towards Mary Alice, only to stop when she sticks out her palm at him.

"Go home", she tells Lewis. "I'll be back later."  
"It's a fucking storm out here. I ain't leaving you out here alone."  
"I'm not alone." She crouches beside him and brushes a hand over his face; the hand comes away wet and bloody, but she doesn't move to clean it. She pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and presses it against his temple.

"You're fucking with me", Lewis growls. "The guy can barely stand, and he's supposed to protect you?"

"First of all, he wouldn't even be like this if you're weren't such a hothead. And second of all." Mary Alice ties the handkerchief around his head and glares up at Lewis. "Who says I need protecting?"

"Mar-"  
"Go!" She turns her back on Lewis. "You've already made a mess of things."

Footsteps, footsteps, footsteps, only they're leaving this time. There's no more danger, only the soft touch of a lover's fingers and her scent enveloping him. He closes his eyes and presses his cheek into her palm.

"Missed you", he slurs as she helps him to his feet.

"Shut up and lean on me." She pulls one of his arms over her shoulders and starts for the park exit. "I don't know what the fuck's wrong with him, but you can bet this is the end of that shit. I'm taking this, and all the other times, to Dains. His ass is so fired. He's lucky he isn't a total waste of a human being, else he'd be homeless, too."  
"Mary-Mary Alice." He tugs on her coat and presses his face into her neck; the gesture is enough to knock her off balance and send them both tumbling into snowbank. Mary Alice squeals and flails her arms, landing a punch in his stomach. He wheezes and bends over, his hands wrapping around himself. Mary Alice crawls closer to him; she takes his face in her hands and stares at him, her eyes wide with guilt and worry.

"Otto? Otto!" She pinches him under his neck and heaves. "For fuck's sake, Otto, are you okay?"  
"I'm fine." He places a hand over the one that lingers on his face and watches her. A smile slips onto his face, and a chuckle escapes him.

"What? Why are you laughing? My God, you don't have a concussion, do you?"  
"No, no, I don't think so." He cocks his head to the side. His other hand rises so that his thumb rests just beneath her left eye. "You have a snowflake caught in your eyelash."  
Mary Alice nods and squeezes his hand tighter. "You have a concussion. We're getting you to a doctor."  
"I was afraid I'd forget how wonderful you are. But I haven't."  
"There's one about three blocks over. Nothing's running right now, but I have a friend that lives just off the park. She can help." She pulls them from the snowbank and begins their walk to the exit. But he won't move. "Otto", she pleads. She tugs on his arm. "Come on. It's cold, and you're bleeding. We need to get you someplace warm and safe."  
He shakes his head and points towards the laboratory. "I have to check something first."  
Mary Alice glares and places her hands on her hips. "It can wait. My friend, she-"  
"The last time this happened, Lewis and his guys set my brain-computer interface research on fire. Set me back by two, three months. Before this, he paid a guy to wreck my station and got me suspended for incompetence. And before and before and before-"  
"Okay, okay, I get it." She waves her hands and sighs. Those heels, ticking and tacking and clicking and clocking, are so loud and distinguished. It's amazing just how much he'd grown to love her, and how every little thing about her made him so profoundly miserable. "He's screwed you over before, and you're worried he's gonna do it again."  
"I know he will. Or has." He brushes a tuft of hair back and exhales. "I saw him earlier. Something he said, it just makes sense." He takes hold of her one of her forearms and stares at her. "I have to do this."

And he did. The Arms, they were his life; the personification of decades of failure and abuse, they were there when he had only a mother who wished for a boy instead of a son. They helped him with his research but more than that, they helped him gain a firm holding of his life. It hadn't lasted, of course, but Mother's gone now. And Mary Alice, the only woman, only person, who'd ever truly believed in him, is back. With further research and her support, in whatever way that may emerge, he and the Arms might be able to advance science, to help someone else. And they may be gone. They may have met the fury of the modern neanderthal. But he has them in his head, and he has Mary Alice in his arms.

And it's time to get back to work.

So they go back to work.  
And they find that their work is a blazing flame of hellfire.  
He rushes in to save them, and Mary Alice rushes in to save him. They travel up staircase after staircase, only stopping when they reach the containment room housing the Arms. As he storms into the room and slides into their harness, the floor beneath them shakes as an explosion rattles the building.

The floor gives way, and flames surge to the ceiling. A canyon separates he and Mary Alice, who's staring at him with panic-stricken eyes.

"Otto."  
"It'll be okay, honey. I promise, it'll be okay."

Her eyes dart to the metal container sitting on a desk, the sole piece of furniture occupying the room. She snatches the container off the desk, types in the code he'd long ago entrusted to her, and santches out the brain-computer interface. Her fingers clench around it as fire licks at the ends of her dress. She smiles.

"Otto, baby?"  
The ceiling above him crumbles, and sparks fall around him. He leaps away and shudders, shrugging off his now burning jacket. He looks back up at Mary Alice and pants. "Yes? What is it?"

She tosses the interface across the empty floor and closes a fist over her chest. There are tears in her eyes, just as there are in his. She taps her fingers once, twice against his chest. "I missed you, too."

Before he can respond, the wall behind her explodes and sets the room on fire. He can hear the sirens going, but the water sprinklers aren't working.

Why aren't they working?

He's choking on smoke and fear, searching for a way across the room. Mary Alice cries out just before her body bursts into flames. Her fist opens, and her perfume vial shatters against the floor. He shouts and starts forward. But before he can make that leap, his floor gives way, and he's falling. He takes in the scent of burning cherries and Mary Alice's anguished screams before he crashes through several levels of a burning building and a dying dream.

. . .

"Peter, Mr. Stark would like to see you."

Peter catches his stress ball just as it's a fraction of a centimeter from colliding with his face. He turns over in his web bed and stares at the ceiling. "Is he sure that's a good idea", he asks, rolling out of the makeshift hammock.

"He has taken precautions to ensure the safety of both himself and you", J.A.R.V.I.S. explains from above. Moments later, the wall beside Peter opens into a doorway. "He's waiting in his study."

He wraps his arms around himself and bites his lips. "He's just gonna let me walk around?"  
"Precautions have been taken", he repeats. "Please, meet Mr. Stark in his study."

Mr. Stark isn't a patient man, so Peter gets on his way. After days spent in artificial lighting, his eyes ache to take in natural sunlight; he presses a hand against the side of his head and navigates the hallways. After three rights and two lefts, he finds himself standing before Mr. Stark's study. The door's open, and the man of the hour's standing with his back to him. Peter takes a step forward, and the floor beneath him creaks.

Broken, empty floors…

Mr. Stark turns around and looks him over. He taps his ear and waits. Then, taking slow, calculated steps, he crosses the room. Peter crosses the other half until they're a safe few inches apart.

"Good to see you, kid."

He nods.

Mr. Stark drops a hand onto his shoulder; his fingers give a quick, little dance, and Peter looks up. Mr. Stark smiles and pulls him into a hug. "It's good to see you", he says, and his voice is airy. His arms are tight around him, and Peter knows his are just as tight.

"It's good to see you, too." He looks up at him and gulps; chills creep up his spine, and his eyes flash green. He wipes a hand over his face and shakes his head. Mr. Stark gives his shoulder another squeeze, then takes a step back. Wrinkles have appeared around his eyes, and he's tapping his ear again.

"He's not here", Peter explains, biting at a hangnail. The piece of skin pulls away with a drop of blood. He presses the sleeve of his shirt against it and hums. "I can, uh, I can feel him. But I'm still me."

Mr. Stark nods. His hand falls to his side. His fingers are tapping his thigh, and his shoulders are tense.

It's hot in the Tower; not hot enough to induce a stroke but enough to raise eyebrows. It's the ass-end of spring. And even if it has been unseasonably cool these past few weeks, it's not cold enough to have the heating cranked up to ninety. "What day is it", Peter asks, tugging at the collar of his shirt.

"Saturday."  
"Hm." He crawls into the loveseat sitting beside Mr. Stark's desk; it's soft. He settles into the seat and stares out the window overlooking Manhattan. "Find anything?"  
"Not really", Mr. Stark says in a low voice. He takes a seat in the seat beside Peter. "We know that he's there, but we aren't sure how, and we don't know how to get rid of him." Peter gives him a look, and Mr. Stark's eyes narrow. "Aside from that", he corrects. "We aren't doing that."  
Peter sighs and props his head against the back of the couch. "Well, what else can we do?"  
"We're working on it." He pulls a baggie of chocolate almonds from his pocket; pouring several of the nuts into his hand, he shakes his head and follows Peter's line of sight. "Thor's talked to his people", he says, his face looking as weary as Peter feels. "They think they've found something. Apparently, they've seen this kind of thing before. They've even cured it."  
"I'm getting the feeling that this is too good to be true."  
"Smart kid." Mr. Stark tosses the baggie to Peter and wipes his palms on his pants. "Thor's an Asgardian, and they're, you know, badasses. This cure of theirs, it involves a plant native to Thor's home. It works just fine for their people, but we don't know the effect it'd have on a foreigner."

Peter continues looking out the window. Earth doesn't have the means needed to fix him, and this cure from Asgard could probably kill him. It's a hell of a conundrum, but he can't find it in himself to get upset. These past three weeks have been nothing short of a nightmare. But now that he's contained, he feels okay. The world has one, or one and a half, less monster to worry about. And for that, he's grateful. Even if it comes at the cost of his own freedom.

"If you want, we can try it", Mr. Stark says, and Peter turns to him. "This is your body. You make the calls."  
"I just want everyone to be safe", he replies in a tired voice. He hasn't slept in days. He just wants to go away for a little while, but if he does, the Doc comes out. And even knowing what he knows now, he can't risk it. "But Asgard is all mystic and stuff. Doc was science. I'm not so sure the two cancel each other out. This might not even work. It might not have any effect on me."

"Doesn't mean you can't try." Mr. Stark leans forward; he stares at the almonds Peter hasn't touched and bites his lip. "I know this is all fucked up, kid. But you can't give in. You do that, and this guy wins."

"This guy never wins." He scratches the inside of his palm and closes his eyes. Across from him, Mr. Stark is staring, his fingers reaching for his ear. They stop at the last moment, though; his feet carry him to Peter, and he pauses beside his loveseat, watching. "Guy had a rough break", he begins, his words colored with urgency. "I know, and I'd never downplay someone's trauma. But just because something bad happened to him, that gave him the right to go around fucking up other people's lives?"  
Peter's fingers curl into the cushions of his seat. "No. But-"  
"But nothing. I could have went rogue when my parents were killed. You could have gone mad went your Uncle was killed. We all have shit times. And we can't always control how we react to em. I've had my moments, and I'm you've sure you've had yours. But that don't mean we go giving out the shit times." Peter's eyes flash green, and his face contorts with rage. Tony straightens his back; he snatches the almonds from Otto's hands and taps his ear. "Hey, Doc. Long time, no see."  
"If you're going to keep me imprisoned like this", Otto says as he folds his hands. "You might as well kill me."  
"Oh, believe me, I would." Tony tosses some almonds into his mouth and rises to his feet. Upon sliding a hand over over his wrist, pieces of metal emerge from throughout the room and settle over him. His faceplate settles, and he folds his arms over his chest. "But that's not my call, and that's not your body." When Otto doesn't respond, Tony lifts a hand and points it at his chest, his palms glowing white.

"This isn't my body", Otto reminds him.

"I know. I've got these set to stun; he can take it. J?"  
"Yes, sir."  
"Any word on Thor?"

Otto glares, then turns and tugs the blanket draping over the back of the couch around him. It's grey and soft, and it smells warm. He pushes a bundle to his nose and sniffs. Tony stares.

"He's waiting in the medical bay with the Omis plant; preparation will take an hour or so, but the plan's carrying out accordingly."  
Tony nods, stares at Otto some more, then clears his throat. "Come on. Time to go."


	8. Three Blind Mice, Kicking Names and Taking Ass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michelle and Cindy talk about what the fuck they're gonna do about Peter, and Ned is not an accomplice.  
> (Spoiler, he totally is, but you didn't hear that from me).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS, I'm watching YogsHannah/Lomodia's playthrough of the new Spidey game. And she mentioned Superior Spiderman like? Is the universe fucking with me? Because if it is, I am a-fucking-okay with that. Carry on, universe.  
> Also, on that note, I am loving the Doc we're being giving in the game. Him and Peter were colleagues and, dare I say, possibly even friends. And his quest for developing prosthetic technology (am I saying this right, correct me if I am) wasn't, as Hannah put it, driven by greed. His very life depended on it, and I think that in itself, excluding the treatment he was getting from Osborn and others, would be enough to drive anyone to some dark places. Not that that excuses anything but makes villains human, and I think that's neat.  
> Sympathetic villains, like what they've done with Mr. Freeze in DC, are my absolute favorite. We see good guys struggling with evil all the time, but seeing the bad guys cross over, especially when it's through a matter of really shitty circumstances, is just something I really fucking enjoy. Black and white looks good on film, but it's a shitty way to look life.  
> And that's enough of me. The trio awaits.

Peter has his secrets.

Michelle has known this since preschool, when he spent recess hiding beneath Mrs. Sheryl's desk; she bugged him for weeks about it, and the only reason she found out was because she hid in the bathroom when the other kids were lining up for the playground. If she hadn't, she'd've never learned of his collection of Bratz dolls.

Wanna know another secret? They spent all of recess playing Spies with those dolls. Michelle offered to lend him some of hers; it was partly because she wanted to bribe him into more playtime but also because she was certain he'd been gathering his collection from the garbage.

And, sure, that was a decade ago, but the fact still rings true: Peter has his secrets, and it's a bitch getting them out of him. Most of them Michelle's been unconver through less than conventional methods, but there are a handful that even she hasn't unearthed. And as a former Judy Bolton-wannabe, she prides herself in her stalker (ahem, detective) skills.

So it's understandably infuriating when, in the fall of their sophomore year, Peter starts acting sketchy; taking off during class, walking around with poorly-disguised bruises, actually being competent in P.E.. Even more frustrating is the fact that Ned seems to be in on it, and Ned can't keep a fucking secret to save his life.

At first, it was just a mild annoyance. Then the Truce of '17 happened; Michelle agreed to quit creeping, the guys agreed to let her sit with them at lunch, and she, Cindy, Peter, and Ned merged into a group. At times, it was weird to have a group. But it was nice. They all grew close.

She and Peter grew close.

Then Peter started acting weird. And not weird-kid weird but weird like "I might need help but don't wanna admit it to myself or anyone else". And the days went on, and he just got weirder and weirder until, eventually, he just disappeared.

And, yes, he did tell her he was gonna disappear, but it's still jolting.

"I know this is weird", Cindy tells her as she rolls a pair of fuzzy socks onto her feet. "But I don't think it's anything bad. Maybe he's sick." Flexing her toes in the socks, she glances over at Michelle and shrugs. "You've seen how tired he's been lately; people suffering from sleep deprivation are prone to illness."  
"Yes, I know, I know, but it's not just that." Michelle's sitting cross-legged on Cindy's bed, her hands folded over her mouth. She's staring at a poster of Descendants 2 plastered over the back of her closet door; her eyes are narrowed and unfocused, intense in the way that means she's either scheming or contemplating. A pair of green irises flash behind her eyes. She taps her fingers against her cheek and hums. "It's not something natural", Michelle murmurs. "It's like, it's like it's, uh-"  
"Not natural", Cindy perks up with a cheeky smile.

Michelle rolls her eyes and tosses a pillow at her; in return, she receives an Alolan Vulpix plushie to the face. Tossing it back and forward between her hands, she leaps off the bed and joins Cindy at her desk. "I'm serious, Cinds." She drops her elbows onto her desk and sighs. "I think something is seriously wrong with him."  
"Uh huh." Cindy pulls her feet into her chair and wraps her arms around her knees. Her head resting on her knee, she then says, "And you think Ned's got something to do with it?"  
"I know Ned's got something to do with it."  
"MJ-"  
"Come on, Cinds. Maybe I do go off the deep end sometime, but when have I ever been wrong about those two?"

She shakes her head at her. "You realize the only reason this thing works is because you agreed to quit the stalker shit, right?" When Michelle only gives her a miserable expression in return, the smile slips from her face; she flips her socks over and turns to face her. "All right", she says as she brushes the back of her hand over her cheek. "You usually do know what's up with them. And if you say something's wrong." She sighs and nods to herself. "Then something probably is."  
"Thank you."  
"But what could it be? I mean, I wanna say the Stark internship, but he worked through whatever issues he had with that months ago, right?"

"Right." Michelle whips out her phone and taps her screen. A picture of the four of them blossoms, but she zeros in on the boy standing at the edge of the screen; that's a different Peter, she thinks as she brushes a finger over him. A Peter from just two months ago, a Peter that smiled a hell of a lot more than the one she knew a few days ago. "But maybe it's related."  
Cindy hums; she reaches into her pocket and pulls out two Tootsie Pops; blue for her and orange for Michelle. She passes the orange to Michelle and unwraps her own. "What do you mean?"

Michelle pops the candy into her mouth, comforted by the sudden onslaught of sweet. "I don't know", she says around the sucker. "It's like, ever since he started interning, he's been different."

"And even before that", Cindy adds. "You remember how clumsy and antsy he was last fall?"  
"Yeah. And that was around the time he started ditching school, too."  
"And later on, he got that internship. And he got weirder, for a bit, but then he seemed to get a handle of things. Almost like whatever he was doing with Stark was helping him with something."

Michelle smiles and punches her in the shoulder. Tossing her feet back and forward, she clenches her fingers into fists and closes her eyes. "I like the way you think, Cinds", she says, pressing a kiss to her cheek before pushing herself off the desk. She walks back to Cindy's bed, reaches into her nightbag, and pulls out a blue plaid shirt. Sliding it over her head, she snaps her fingers and says, "That internship always did smell fishy."  
"MJ, everything smells fishy to you", Cindy says with an eyeroll. Before she can say more, Michelle tosses her phone at her and begins shimmying into a pair of jeans. "What-"  
"Call Ned." She groans, kicks her legs into the air, and works getting the pants up her legs.

"It'd probably be easier if you were, I don't know, standing." She ducks beneath a soaring shit emoji pillow and dials Ned's number. He picks up on the first call.

"Hey, Emjay-oh! Cindy!" He smiles and waves. "What's up?" His smile fades, and his shoulders creep skyward, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Why do you have MJ's phone? Is this an interrogation?"  
"What?" Cindy's face flushes red, and she chuckles, swatting a hand at him. "No, don't be silly-"  
"Of course it is, don't listen to her." Michelle pops up over Cindy's shoulder and points an accusatory finger at him. "We know your dirty little secret."  
Ned raises an eyebrow. "What?"  
"Well, we know Peter's secret, and we know you know it."  
He smiles and drops his chin into his hand. "Oh, really, now?"  
"Quit fucking around, Ned, we're serious."  
Cindy rolls her eyes and pushes Michelle to the side. "Okay, bad cop", she says as she props the phone up against the mirror. "How about you let me take over for a bit?" Michelle begins to protest, but Cindy just shakes her head and wags a finger at her. She snatches a pair of hot pink sunglasses off her dresser and slides them on. "Ned", she begins, showing her palms to him. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Michelle pulls the candy off her Tootsie Pop and flicks the stick into Cindy's garbage pail.

Ned nods, folds his hands in front of him, and purses his lips in thought. "What the fuck are you guys on?"

"Uh, sugar and Steven Universe feels mostly. But that's besides the point." She passes a pair of black sunglasses to Michelle. "We're worried about Peter."

Ned pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. "Guys-"  
"You can't tell us we're just being crazy", Michelle cuts in, and he falls silent. "Look me in the eye and tell me he's okay." He doesn't say anything. She rubs at her eye and exhales; Cindy gives her a look. "Guys", she says in exasperation. "He's been missing for, like, a week. We can't just sit here and not do something."  
"He's not missing", Ned insists. "You heard his Aunt May, he's-"  
"Working with Stark on that internship, yeah, yeah, yeah." Cindy lowers her glasses and blinks. She turns back to Ned, her eyes wide, and says, "Wait, so that means he's with Stark, right?"  
Ned nods. "Uh, yeah."  
"And Stark's been in New York on 'business', right?"

A light smile appears on his face. "So he's probably in Stark Tower."  
Cindy chuckles, strokes her chin, then tips her glasses down at him. "I like the way you think."  
He rolls his eyes and scoffs. Sitting up on his bed, he places his phone down and towers over his screen. "Okay", he begins, wiping a tired hand over his face. "Even if he is in Stark Tower, and that's a big if, what are we supposed to do? Just break in and take him home?"  
Michelle and Cindy exchange a look. "Well, I wouldn't say breaking", Michelle says with a sheepish shrug.

"MJ-"

"Come on, Ned." Cindy rolls her chair closer. "It can't be too hard. We'll just say we wanna talk to Peter and-"  
"And he's just supposed to let a bunch of weirdos into a building with one of the most advanced, most efficient security systems in the world just because they claim to be cubby buddies with Peter?"

Cindy frowns. She drops an arm onto her desk; her eyes flick back to Michelle, who's still got that guns-a-blazin' look in her eye. She meets Cindy's gaze and raises an eyebrow, who in turn just shrugs. "He's kinda got a point. We aren't exactly James Bond scouts."  
Ned sighs. "Thank you."  
"Fair enough", Michelle admits with an air of reluctance. She rises from the floor, though, and crawls into Cindy's chair, sitting firmly in her lap. "But I'll tell you what we are."  
Ned scowls; he rolls over onto his side, picks his phone up, and points it down at himself. "What?"  
"We are teenagers of the twenty-first-motherfucking-century who have spent way too much time watching spy movies and who have above average intelligence."  
Cindy nods up at her. "I always thought I had an above average intelligence", she muses, aggressively nodding her head. "Never heard anyone confirm it, though."

"Guys, hello?" Ned shakes his phone and scoffs. Once his screen returns to balance, the girls find him wearing a frustrated expression, his eyes wide and his brows furrowed. "We aren't actually considering this, are we? I mean, we're talking breaking and entering, which is illegal. This is fucking crazy."  
"First of all, it's perfectly sane", Michelle refutes as she stretches her arms above her head. "And second, it's not illegal because we won't be breaking and entering. Mr. Fuzzy Face is gonna let us right on in, and he's not gonna suspect a thing."  
Cindy tosses her Tootsie Pop's stick into the garbage and cocks her head at her. "And how exactly is that gonna happen?"  
"I have a plan."  
"A plan?"  
"Guys, this is not a cheesy 90s movie, okay. This type of shit doesn't work in real life."

"It does if you're us", Michelle trills in a high voice. "Okay, first things first, Ned, you need to get here ASAP. I don't wanna take any chances that we're being listened to."  
Cindy kicks her leg against her desk and spins them around in a circle. "Why would we be tapped", she asks as the world swirls around them. "We're kids; the most 'nefarious' thing we've ever done is watch Netflix for free."  
"Could you guys please just listen to me? Messing with Tony Stark, an Avenger; a guy who used to make his living building weapons? We're talking about a guy who routinely goes grocery shopping in a walking tank. We could get arrested or even killed trying to pull this off."  
Michelle shakes her head; she places her palms down on the desk and stares into the screen. "Ned. Whatever's going on with Peter, it's serious. He's gone radio silent on everyone, including his Aunt May. All we can go on is what Stark is telling her, and that's not enough." Taking hold of her wrist, Michelle flexes her fingers and huffs. She holds Ned's eye and gives her head a slight tilt. "We have to do this. We have to make sure he's okay. Now are we in, or are we out?"  
Cindy's eye dart to her watch, then back to Michelle. She scratches the back of her head and raises her eyebrows. "I'm in", she says with a nod. "But this has gotta be fast. I have a test for Italian on Monday, and I need to crank in some study hours tonight."  
They turn to Ned.

"Well, if this isn't a textbook example of peer pressure."

"Come on, Ned", Michelle pleads. "If this is happening, it's gotta be all or none."

"We can't do this without you."

"Between you two and Peter, I'll never have a normal weekend."  
Cindy beams and dances in her seat. "Is that a yes?"

Ned smiles. "Yeah, it's a yes." He sits up once more and clears his throat. "Now, this plan of yours", he begins, rolling back his shoulders. "I mean, I'm assuming you have a plan."

Michelle raps her fingers against Cindy's desk; she reaches into one of the drawers and pulls out a pen and notepad. "As a matter of fact, smartass, I do have a plan. So first off. Do either of you know anyone who works at Pizza Hut?"


	9. Time For a Getaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for that cure! Well, supposedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello, earth. So I was going through my notes and realized we're closer to being finished than I thought like? You guys can be expecting one to two more chapters, then we'll be done. Wow. I'm actually kinda sad.

The woman's name is Eir.

Her eyes are soft yet also so very rigid. Thor says she doesn't like humans and that he shouldn't take it personally. She spends the entirety of the inspection glaring at Peter, though, so it's kinda hard not to.

"She's not usually like this", Thor assures him once she's left the room; his hands are busy cutting the bulbous, orange plant, but his eyes are on Peter. These eyes are soft and warm, and they help to ease his tremors. "How are you fairing, young one?"  
Peter shrugs. He's aiming for nonchalance, but the movement is stilted by the arms tautly wrapped around him. "F-Fine."

He nods. "Tony says you've developed chills."  
"Y-Yeah." Rubbing his palms together to generate some heat, he shudders and rocks back and forward on his table. "I, uh, I've had 'em for a while", he admits. "But they aren't usually this bad."  
"Hm." Thor turns to mincing the chunks of Omis; there's a glowing, hissing liquid gathered over his hands, but he doesn't seem bothered by it. On the contrary, it actually seems soothing if the gradual relaxing of his shoulders should mean anything. "Eir thinks this Octopus man's presence is getting stronger; he likely knows that his time is coming to an end, so he's...exerting himself more." His hands pause, and he glances at Peter. "Doctor Octopus", he says, his jaw moving as if the words cause it strain. "That isn't his real name, is it?"  
Peter's lips retreat into a smile. He shakes his head. "No", he replies, kicking his knees beneath him. "It's Otto Octavius. His old body had four arms so..."  
"Don't octopuses-octopi?-have eight arms?"

He shows him his palms. "Wasn't my idea." Lewis's serrated smile flickers behind his eyelids; his expression turns morose once more, and he looks away. He brushes a thumb beside the bridge of his nose. "I guess the name just kinda stuck."  
"Right." Thor lifts the cutting board off the table and scrapes its contents into a blender. He presses a button, and a whirring sound fills the air. Placing a hand atop the blender, he then looks back to Peter and stares. "You don't seem afraid", he notes simply.

Peter shrugs. "I'm not afraid."  
The blender continues whirring, and Thor continues staring. He removes his cape from his shoulders and wraps it around Peter's. Still at Peter's side, he watches as the plant is churned into an orange, gooey mess and purses his lips. "If I were about to ingest a plant from another Realm", he muses with an air of casualness. "I think I'd be afraid."  
Peter has a length of the cape balled up in his hand. He stares at the ball, transfixed by the silkiness of the cloth, and breathes. His lungs feel weak, like he's been huffing smoke fumes and toxic waste. Every breath is a struggle, and finding the strength to take the next seems unbearable. He's tired, and he wants desperately to get some sleep. But he doesn't trust his body to sustain itself while he's under.

'Course, these days, he's not trusting it much anyhow.

"I know I should be feeling a lot of things", he says eventually. "But I don't." He looks up through his bangs and stares at Thor. "Not really. Not since", he gestures to his chest, "this happened."

Thor gives his back a pat and smiles. "Afterwards, I'm sure you'll be yourself again."

"I hope so."

The door opens, and Mr. Stark and Eir enter. Thor stands, shakes his hand, and pulls him into a brief hug. He then turns and joins Eir at the doorway. Mr. Stark walks to Peter and stands in front of his table. Sitting beneath his scrutinizing gaze, Peter can't help but think of the first time they'd met and how very small he felt; it's nothing in comparison to this.

"You ready, bud?"  
The muscles in his arms spasm, and a quiet whimper escapes him. His eyes wash over to green, and he keels over, his arms returning around his stomach. Mr. Stark reaches forward and wraps a arm around his shoulder.

"Peter", he asks, and he sounds scared.

He wishes he could feel scared again. "I'm fine", he hisses into his lap. He looks up with eyes a fresh green and grits his teeth. "Let's just get this over with. Please."

I'm not a bad guy, Doc tells him as Mr. Stark leads them to the blender. I'm truly not.

Just leave me alone, Peter says back. He lifts the blender from its table and tips the cup backwards. Just as the liquid's begun to creep down the cup, Mr. Stark's earpiece whirs, and Jarvis informs him of a delivery.

"For fuck's sake", Mr. Stark murmurs. He taps his ear and turns his back to Peter. "Tell 'em it can wait."  
"I'm afraid I have to insist, sir. It's an order for Peter."

His head swivels to Peter. He squints and folds his arms over his chest. "Pete, buddy. Did you order a cheese pizza and a milkshake?"

A frown threatening to overwhelm his features, he starts to reply in the negative. But as his lips form around the "no", something MJ once said jumps to the forefront of his memory and renders his speechless:

"White Castle and Pizza Hut. You, me, the lover birds. A picnic beneath the roof of a dilapidated laboratory. Come on, dipshit, it'll be fun."

That was, what, two weeks ago? For all that's happened in the time since, it feels like a lifetime. Just picturing MJ, standing so awkwardly behind that desk in that empty classroom, seems like a false memory. But he knows it to be true, and he's never heard a more wonderful question in his life.

The frown turns into a smile; his lips perk up, and his eyes crinkle. He inhales, pulls Thor's cape tighter around him, and nods furiously. "Y-Yeah", he says, his voice an octave higher than normal. "I, uh, figured, you know, one last mean. It seemed appropriate."  
Mr. Stark raises an eyebrow. "Since when do resturants co-deliver?"  
"It's a promotion type thing, I think."  
"Uh huh." He places his hands on his hips and nods at Thor. "Keep an eye on that", he says with a point to the blender. He then grabs Peter by the shoulder and directs him out of the room.

They take the elevator down, neither saying a word. For all the skeptical glances Mr. Stark keeps tosses his way, though, they might as well have had an actual conversation.

"Forgive me if I'm wrong", he says as they approach the front door. "But I can't help but feel like I'm about to get my ass handed to me."  
Peter shrugs and gestures to his cuffed hands. "Not much I can do here."

"J.A.R.V.I.S. says there aren't any records of you placing an order."  
"I made it before I came here."  
Mr. Stark reaches into his wallet and pulls out a ten; he gives Peter a pointed look, then reaches for the door handle. "You made an order for pizza and a milkshake last week, and it just happens to come the exact moment before you take alien juice?"  
Peter nods. "This is the age of technology." When Mr. Stark's hand has yet to open the door, he sighs and points his bound hands at him. "I can't do anything", he reminds him. "And even if I could, I haven't been around a phone in a week. I can't contact anyone or anything. I swear, I've had nothing to do with this. Aside from placing the order, I mean."  
"If you're fucking with me, I'm ordering my own pizza, and you're not getting any." He pulls open the door, and the natural light from inside nearly blinds Peter. Peter squints, willing himself to remain facing forward, and watches as the two figures behind the door look up from the ground.

It's MJ and Cindy; MJ's holding the pizza, and Cindy's got the milkshake.

They're both wearing bluetooths.

"Hey, mister", MJ greets, shoving the pizza at Mr. Stark. Cindy hands him the milkshake, and they both take a step back. "That's eight fifty for me and, uh." She elbows Cindy.

"Um, three eighty six."  
"Oooo-kay." Mr. Stark reaches for his wallet again, and the three teens each exchange expressions of relief. Cindy points to the bottom of her shake, then looks away as Mr. Stark looks up from his wallet; he slides it into his back pocket and gives the girls their due money. "Thank you, ladies. You've been of excellent service. Bye now." Closing the door on them, he passes Peter the shake and balances the pizza box in his hand. "Friends of yours?"

Peter stirs the shake; when it strikes against something solid, he closes his eyes, bites his lip, and sighs quietly. He takes a sip and stores the chip against the side of his mouth. "Never seen 'em before in my life."

He hasn't had much reason for hope these past three weeks. Even now, at the prospect of spending a few moments with his friends, the future seems bleak. Because at some point, he will return to the Tower, and he will drink that plant. There's no telling how it'll get rid of the Doc; it's just gonna get the job done.

But before that, he has this moment. And in this moment, he has the means to see the gang again. If he plays his cards right, he might even get to pay Aunt May one last visit.

As they round the corner that precedes the elevator, Peter discreetly spits the chip into his hands. He presses the button located in the center, and the Tower fades into darkness. Before Mr. Stark can gather his bearings, Peter turns around and swings to the front door; he pulls it open and flings himself into the unforgiving winds and rains of a springtime storm.

There's cool air settling over his clammy skin and slithering within his nostrils. It feels nice. It feels like, like he's alive.

Peter takes in a shaky breath, brushes his hair out of his face, and gives his surroundings a quick lookover. There's the usual clutter of citizens, the sounds of street musicians teasing the city, the angry shouts of protestors. But there's something new amidst the usual chaos: sitting at the edge of the street, there's a blue minivan with white clouds painted on it.

Peter smiles and starts towards the corner.

The van makes a Uie and swings its doors open. MJ and Cindy each extend a hand and shout, "Get in!"  
Peter shoots a web onto each of their hands and pulls himself forward. The girls wobble, nearly falling out themselves, but another shot of webbing pulls the doors closed. The three collapse into a pile of sweaty limbs and panting chests, and the van takes off once more.

Ned adjusts the rearview mirror and shouts, "Peter!"  
Peter looks up from the floor and stares, his eyes perplexed. "Since when can you drive?"  
The van makes a jerky right, and the three collide with the backseat.

"Uh, I've been taking classes on weekends. Every Guy in the Chair needs a van, Peter."  
"Okay, hold up." Cindy crawls over MJ and sprawls onto the floor. "What does that even mean and-"  
"And since when are you the Spider Dude?"

"Uh, it's Spiderman actually."  
"Yeah, and I'm his Do It Guy."  
MJ pulls herself into a seat and straps herself in. "His what guy?"

"You know." Ned waves a hand as they come to a red light. "The Guy that tells him what's what and handles his techy stuff when he's kicking ass."  
Cindy and Peter follow MJ's example. As Cindy's shoving her belt into its buckle, she leans on Ned's headrest and ponders this. "Like Wade from Kim Possible?"

"Yeah, exactly like that."

She smiles. "Awesome."  
"Okay", MJ shouts, waving her hands in front of her. "Are we seriously just gonna ignore that Peter's the Spiderman?" She turns to Peter and huffs. "Dude. Are you an Avenger?"  
"I, uh, think so."  
"Guys." MJ makes a noise in her throat and pulls her legs into her seat. "We just kidnapped a fucking Avenger. This is insane."  
Cindy nods and tosses a brown Tootsie Pop to him. "That's exactly what I was thinking." She pulls out her own Pop and nods. "I finally know what to write my personal statement about."

"You seemed perfectly fine with it this morning", Ned interjects as the light turns green; he presses on the gas pedal, and they take off again, only to stop a moment later when they hit traffic. He drops his arm beside the window and huffs. "New York makes for really lousy getaway scenes."

"Okay, yeah, but we were kidnapping Peter then. Now, we're kidnapping a literal superhero. For fuck's sake." She takes her head in her hands, anxious curls bouncing about, and groans. "This actually might be illegal."  
"Yeah, because 'Do not kidnap Superheroes' is totally a law."

"Maybe not but 'Do not kidnap not-Superheroes' totally is."

"Do you guys think we could be more serious about this?" Peter turns around in his seat to inspect the angry traffic surrounding them. MJ follows his eye and cranes her neck around.

"Think we're being followed?"  
"Depends." He turns back around, taking a moment to pull his wrists free of his cuffs. In his weakened, sleep-deprived state, it takes more force than it usually would. Once the metal snaps, he huffs, slides back against his seat, and closes his eyes. He pulls off the wrapping off his sucker and pops it into his mouth. "Where'd you guys park?"  
"Around the corner."  
"Mm." He breathes and swipes a hand over the back of his neck. "Then we should be fine." He tosses his candy wrapper to Ned. Once he's caught his attention, he smiles and pulls the chip out of his pocket. "A negating electricity chip", he says in awe. "I didn't think you followed through on it."  
"Well, I didn't." The car inches forward, and horns sound around them. "That's just a prototype; the final product's supposed to knock out a mile's worth of electricity for two hours."  
Peter scratches the back of his head. "How long's this one last?"

Ned glances up and to the right. "Uh", he tilts a hand back and forward. "Fifteen-twenty minutes."

Beside them, a U-Haul truck blares its horn and sets off a litany of dismayed traffic-goers. Peter presses his fingertips into his temples and inhales.

Cindy shifts in her seat and gives him another lookover. "Is that Thor's cape?"


	10. Keep on Trucking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three's a crowd.

In a weird, roundabout sort of way, they end up at the laboratory.   
Nobody states the obvious (like, when was the last time you ate, why are your eyes green, what’s with the shakes). They just sneak past the gates and hike up to the observation deck; it’s corroded and overgrown with vegetation after years of neglect. It’s kind of sad yet also nice; like an unrealized dream that grew into something else.   
After a while, Peter sneaks off to what was once a botanical garden. All that remains now is random weeds, squirrels, and cigarette butts. He brushes his fingers over a rusted piece of pipe jutting from the earth, watching the ensuing cloud of dirt and ash with foggy eyes.   
“We had our first date here”, Doc tells him, rubbing his thumb and ring finger against one another. “It was a cool day in spring. She wore a dress; green, like lily pads.”  
Peter dusts his hands on his thighs and looks over the garden with a yearning he doesn’t recognize. “Was this hers?”  
“It was all hers. She wanted to give the lab some life. Give something to make us forget about science for a while.”  
“Did it work?”  
“For a time, yes. But it didn’t last. This place was dead long before the fire.”  
Doc lowers onto his knees and digs his fingers into the earth. It’s cold. And dry. And dead.   
“I’m tired”, Peter says as he unearth a brown leaf from the soil.   
“I know.”  
He presses the leaf between his fingers; it crumbles underneath the force, and several, brittle pieces of brown drift to the ground like deceased angels. “I’m gonna kill you later”, Peter tells him tiredly. “Maybe in an hour. Maybe two.”  
Doc crawls back to his feet and directs them through the maze of halls. They arrive at a baby blue door, and Peter knows it’s Mary Alice’s office even without Doc’s input.   
They look over the scorched room; there are insects living within this space, and the wind is whistling as it pierces the walls.   
They close their eyes, and they listen.   
“Why’d you have to be the bad guy”, Peter whispers to him. “You could have been good, could have been one of us.”  
“I didn’t want to be good.” Heat flares in his chest, and Peter clenches his fingers into a fist. “I’d been good my whole life. To my father, to my mother, to my boss. All it ever did was get me beat up or hurt.”  
The wind sneaks underneath Peter’s shirt, sending the cloth billowing like a soiled cloud. He presses a hand to his chest and inhales shakily. “And Mary Alice?”  
“I was tired”, he continues, undeterred. “I didn’t want to think of sin and morality anymore. I had nothing, and I was nothing. When you’re nothing, it’s easy not to care about who or what you’ve hurt.”  
“That doesn’t excuse all the shit you’ve done.”  
A smile emerges upon his face. The Doc leans against the charred wall beside them and hums. And just like that, the cold is back, and the walls are up once more. “Dear, Peter”, Doc says, and their chest aches. “You weren’t beginning to sympathize with me, were you?” When Peter doesn’t respond, he nods and presses his fingers into the wall; when they come away, they’re covered with soot and dust. It comes off with a quick brush against his leg, but what it means and what it once was will never go away. “I am what I am”, Doc tells him. “There’s no sense to be made of it. It’s just how things are.”  
“That’s bullshit. You gave up”, Peter states. His tongue is hot and furious, ready to surge forward and lash out like a whip. “You didn’t have to be this. You chose to be what you are.”  
“I’m not gonna argue with you, Peter. Life happened, and I reacted. That’s all there is to it, and that’s all any of us can do.” A new set of chills emerge, and the Doc sinks back into his head. Before his presence can fully fade away, though, a pair of footsteps sound from behind them.   
Clickety, clackety.   
That little spark that is the Doc pulses, then fizzles out. He’s still there, but he’s dormant, like the burning coals of a dying fire.   
Peter turns around and finds MJ standing in the doorway.   
She’s wearing platform boots.  
“MJ.”  
She shrugs. “Peter.”   
“Uh.” He closes his eyes, preparing himself for what’s sure to be taxing conversation, and sighs. “How much did you hear?”  
“Enough.” She clears her throat, and her voice is louder, more assertive. “So”, she says, approaching him with determined yet cautious steps. She pauses just a few inches away and wraps her arms around herself. “Is this an Exorcist type of deal?”   
Peter scoffs and shakes his head. At the pointed look he receives, he bites his lip and kicks a foot against the ground. “In a way.” He crawls onto the desk beside him and drops his elbows between his legs. “Sorry about the phone call.”  
MJ joins him on the desk, staring at him with befuddled eyes before clarity rings within them. She swings her legs beneath her, rubs a finger under her nose, and turns her attention to her nails. “Oh. Uh. That-that’s okay. I get it. I probably wouldn’t have answered anyway.”  
He rolls his eyes and pushes her shoulder.   
“We were worried, though”, she says, and she looks back to him. Her hands are fidgeting in her lap. “We weren’t sure what happened to you.” Brushing aside several stray curls, she moves a hand from her lap and places it over Peter’s.   
He looks up at her, his face a deep shade of red, and gulps. “Em-emjay?”  
“So it’s the two souls-one body thing, then the superhero gig, then the normal teenage shit”, MJ says, her words blurring into one another. “I know that’s gotta make things pretty hectic but.” She sighs, squeezes his hand tight, and stares into his eyes. “Let me know when things are getting hairy. I’d rather you not die so...”  
Peter smiles. “I’d rather me not die either.”   
“I’m serious, Pete. I don’t expect to be in the loop on everything, but you had me scared shitless this past week. Just...if you can...talk to me. I mean.” She takes hold of her forearm and shyly looks over at him. “I know we haven’t been cool for long, but I can be here if things ever get too heavy.”  
Peter purses his lips. “Are you saying-”  
“I’m saying, use that bigass brain of yours and fucking talk to people when you’re hurt”, MJ says in a rush. She’s fiddling with the strands of one of her bracelets and studiously avoiding his eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ, Peter, you have people that care about you, and none of them want to see anything bad happen to you.”   
He frowns and keeps his eyes trained on her. “That only works if I’m not a danger to anyone else. And at the moment, I can’t in good faith say that.” He continues staring, drawing closer until she finally looks to meet his stare. Her face reads angry and hurt and, above all else, confused. He reaches over and drops his hand onto hers. MJ remains as she is, watching him with eyes so raw and open that it makes him skin burn.  
“Otto has...mood swings, I guess”, Peter says to her. “Sometimes, he’s chill, and I know things are relatively okay. But it doesn’t last. One moment, he’ll be fine, and the next, he’ll have me wanting to snatch somebody’s face off. If things weren’t the way they were, I would, uh, talk to you. But they aren’t, and I can’t.”  
“But you’re here.” MJ folds her hand over his and presses her nails into the skin there. Her eyes are hard now, cold and bitter and lidded by obstinance. “You could have told Stark about the phone call, and you could have stayed in that Tower, safe and contained. But you didn’t. You left, and you came with us.” Peter stares down at her callused fingers raising over the back of his hand. MJ scoots closer. “Why did you come with us?”  
Why? Why, when given a surefire end to the nightmare that had become his life, did he prolong the experience? Why, instead of ending it all and ensuring the safety of countless people, did he put himself first and leap into a potentially catastrophic escape? Because he was the hero, wasn’t he? And rule number one of being the hero meant putting the good of the all over the good of the one, didn’t it?  
Peter supposes that it’s true. But it’s not him.   
“Maybe it’s the doc or maybe it’s just whatever”, Peter begins. “But I’ve been feeling kinda apathetic for the last few weeks. And even a little before that. Since this whole thing got started, it’s gotten better but.” He chuckles bitterly and brushes several strands of hair out of his face. “Only in the sense that instead of being a not being able to feel anything, I can only feel terror. And as the days dragged on, even that was dim. But they gave me that antidote, and I took it, and I just-I got scared.” He squeezes MJ’s hand and sighs, his shoulder drooping. He shakes his head at himself, then looks up at her. “Taking the antidote would’ve gotten rid of the Doc, but it could have killed me, too. And I didn’t wanna die.” A strangled cry threatens to emerge from his chest. He pushes it down with a cough, then diverts his attention to his lap. “I know that that’s selfish and I-”  
“Peter.” MJ lifts her hand to his forearm and tugs. When he refuses to meet her gaze once more, she stiffens her back and takes in a deep breath. “Peter”, she repeats; her voice is strong and loud, just like the beating of Peter’s heart. “You are not Superman. You’re not the guy that can get hit in the face by a meteor and just walk it off, and you’re definitely not the guy that can look at a ‘my life vs everyone else’s’ sitch and immediately pick the second. And you know what, maybe it is selfish. But that doesn’t inherently make you a bad dude. It makes you mellow. Peter, nobody expects you to be the all-sacrificing, pure-at-heart type of guy. They just want you to be you.”  
The building is quiet. Peter can hear Cindy and Ned stomping around down the hall, can hear a bell jingling at a nearby bakery. MJ’s still beside breathing, breathing heavily from the effort of having said something so charged with emotion. Rain droplets are sliding between the cracks in the ceiling, plopping over their interwoven hands. He brushes a finger over one such drop and rubs the liquid against her pinkie. “What do you want me to be”, Peter asks as he finally looks back up.  
She scoffs and stares back at him. “Me?”  
Peter nods.   
MJ blinks, scratches her free hand against the back of her head, and huffs. “I want you to be okay, asshole.”  
His head tilts to the side. He considers her with a conflicted expression, several emotions warring for control. In the end, exhaustion emerges as the victor, and his body shows this: his eyes crinkle, his frame turns lax, and each breath he expels is a prolonged experience. “I don’t know that I will be.”  
“That’s okay”, MJ says. “Just don’t call it quits so soon. The way you tell it, it sounds like this antidote could go either way. But you’re more leaning towards kicking the bucket. Look just.” Her face scrunches up, and her grip on his hand tightens. “Just keep trying, all right? Even if you can’t do anything else.”  
“MJ.”  
“Yeah?”  
“Thanks.”  
MJ gives a slight shrug. “No problem.”   
“No, really. Thanks.” Peter’s gaze remains fixed on her as he leans in. Her eyes dart down to his lips, then back up to his eyes. Shifting so that her chest is to his, MJ leans in as well. Their other hands join, and their bodies curl around one another until the ceiling caving in forces them apart.   
Peter kicks the desk over and sends them hurtling behind it. Clenching one fist and preparing the other for a webshot, he stiffens his stance and instructs MJ to duck. The dust from the debris clears, though, and reveals an Iron Man suit standing amongst the clouds.   
“Shit”, MJ murmurs beside him.   
“Hiya, kids. Long time no see.” Mr. Stark gestures for MJ to step away. When all she does is glare and cross her arms, he flicks back his faceplate and matches the look with a scowl of his own. “You need to leave immediately. There’s a perpetually grumpy guy waiting outside for you with your friends. Go meet them. Now.”  
MJ steps closer to Peter.  
Mr. Stark rolls his eyes. He turns to Peter. “You lied to me.”  
“Uh, not technically. I really didn’t have anything to do with this. This was all their idea.”  
“Remind me never to ever do anything for you ever again.”  
“Pete”, Mr. Stark interrupts; he steps forward, and chills descend upon Peter. “You know the situation; it’s not safe for you, and it’s not safe for anyone else for you to be out like this. We have to go. You can say goodbye to your friends outside. May’s there, too.”  
MJ looks to Peter, who’s just snatched hold of her hand. His eyes are green. “Peter?”  
“I know you’re worried about him, but you need to let the adults handle this”, Mr. Stark is saying. But a quick glare from MJ and an urgent head tilt render him speechless. Following her line of sight, he turns to Peter and takes note of the color in his eyes. His arms jerk as he prepares a unibeam blast. Before he can do more, Peter abruptly grabs MJ by the waist and levels him with an icy stare. Mr. Stark’s arms fall pliant at his sides.   
“You’re really gonna draw this out”, he breathes with his palms pointed to the ground. “Your clock’s giving out. It’s time to go.”  
“Come on, Tony.” Otto smirks and tightens his grip around MJ. “ When have you ever known me to give up that easily?” Without further remark, he leaps back onto the desk, propels himself skyward, and swings from the office.   
MJ’s slamming her fists against him as Otto thwips through the city; he swings around buildings, ducks beneath bridges, rushes across rooftops, and glides through alleys until he’s certain they’ve lost Tony. Even then, he maintains precaution by slithering into a sewer passage.   
“It’d be best if you ceased in your struggling”, he informs MJ as she continues to hurl obscenities his way; he guides her down the trash-littered path, a fist tightly coiled around her forearm. “If something were to happen to you, no one would be around to save you.”  
MJ huffs but yields, just barely suppressing a flinch at cold touch of his fingers. She steps over an abandoned carton of Chinese food and follows him, eyes darting about for an exit. “What do you even think you’re gonna do”, she questions as they come to a corner. “We-we’ve got, like, a fuckton of Avengers now. When they find out you’re picking on one of theirs, they’re gonna come for you.”  
“You and Parker, both quite the talkers.” He tuts, digs his nails into her skin, and pulls his lips back into a sneer. “It’s no wonder he’s so fond of you.”  
MJ’s face scrunches up. She keeps on alongside him. Water’s splashing up over the pathway, threatening to spill across her boots. “Ugh.” She winces and instinctively draws closer to Peter. Upon remembering who he truly is, she winces once more and walks as close to the sewer water as he’ll allow.   
“Am I truly that repulsive”, Otto wonders, watching her with an amused smirk.  
MJ merely narrows her eyes, her shoulders rising to her ears, and makes the sound of an agitated cat. “Yes.”  
Otto continues smiling. He cranes his neck around another corner, then continues on, stepping over a dead rat. “You remind me an awful lot of someone I used to know.”  
“Oh, I hope the fuck not.”  
“Your names even begin the same. MJ, isn’t it?”  
“No. It’s Michelle.” She slips her free hand into her pocket and feels around for her pepper spray. Otto’s too busy staring into the past to notice. “Why are you doing this?” He doesn’t stop walking, so she yanks her arm free and steps back.   
Beside her, there’s a crack in the wall, bleeding out from the ceiling and spilling onto the ground like angry veins; something that’s not quite light but brighter than dark is spilling from within there. Michelle’s standing there, her face silhouetted by jagged pieces of blue. “Octavius”, Michelle says, and she sounds like somebody else. “Right?”  
Otto’s paused in his steps, hovering as the ground splits at a crossroads. He doesn’t say anything. Just stares with unblinking eyes.   
“I’ve read about you”, Michelle continues. She steps past the crevice and drifts down the left road; Otto falls behind her, keeping a steady, calculated distance away. “Who you were, what you did; your life before the fire.” Squeezing her fingers around the tiny container, she nods, breathes, and turns back to face him. It’s Peter’s face, and with the dim lighting of the sewer, you’d almost think it really was Peter.   
But Peter’s never watched her like this, watched her like a skua watches a small penguin. And Peter’s never held her the way he had before, like the very thought of her leaving would be an insult to his being.   
“Is this all you really want anymore? Being bad and hurting people?” She smirks, ignoring the frantic beating of her heart, and scoffs. “Cause from what I’ve heard, it didn’t used to be like that.”  
Otto stalks closer. Michelle turns so that her side is to him and pulls out her spray; it lingers at her side as she waits, still searching for an escape route. Otto places a hand-Peter’s hand-against her cheek and stares at her with eyes so full of wonder, you’d’ve thought she were the Babylonian Gardens.   
“You’re still young, my dear. You can’t understand how these things are.”  
“Right. Well, then.” Michelle smiles, brushes her curls around her neck, and bats her lashes like once Cindy instructed. “Why don’t you explain ‘em to me?”   
Otto narrows his eyes, looking glazed and unfocused. “People never change”, he murmurs to himself. “And they never leave, they always come back.” He blinks, looks up, and his hand falls to her shoulder. “You came back.”  
Michelle lifts her hand to spray him, but he swats it away, the can flicking into the rapid waters beside them. Not even a second later, Otto’s up in her space, cradling her in his arms. He’s watching her again, but his eyes don’t match the stubborn, frantic movements of his body as he drags her through the sewer. Those eyes, they’re wide, and they are afraid.   
Those are Peter’s eyes.  
“Peter”, Michelle breathes.   
“Peter’s gone”, Otto says as he pushes her up against the wall. His hands are trembling against her shoulders, and the muscles in his faces are twitching. But he remains as he is, with his lips pulled back into an unhinged, lost smile. “But I’m here now.”  
She glares. “You’re not supposed to be here.”  
“A lot of things aren’t supposed to happen. All we can do is take what we’ve been given and make the best of it.”  
“Right.” Michelle presses further into the wall and rotates her head away from him. She zeros in on the sewer water, pulling her lower lip between her teeth, and ignores the insistent presence of his nails in her skin. “And hurting, killing people? Stealing somebody’s body, kidnapping his friend? That’s what you chose to make of it?”  
“Well, yes. But also.” He fingers crawl up to her hair; he twists the curls around his index finger and hums. “I was thinking of the mantle I adopted along with this body.” He shifts his attention from her hair to her eyes and smirks. “With my brain alone, I was brilliant. But with this body, this young, fit, untainted body? I could be invincible.”  
Michelle keeps her eyes on the water. “Invincible?”  
“Yes, I believe that’s what I said. Or is that word not in your vocabulary? Gah!” Pain explodes in his stomach, and he releases his grip on her shoulders. Otto stumbles backwards, clenching a hand over his middle. Before he can properly inspect himself, Michelle surges her pocket knife forward once more and catches him in the shoulder. He cries out again and crumbles to the ground, glaring up at her with a face distorted with rage.   
“You may be Spiderman”, Michelle says between wavering breaths. “But you’re still human, jackass.”   
“You despicable little-”  
“Save it for Stark”, she seethes. She turns to run away, only to stop by the anguished, “MJ!” from behind her. She turns around, and, all at once, Otto’s gone, leaving only a bleeding Peter in his wake. “You better not be fucking with me.”  
Peter groans. His arm remains around his stomach. “Can’t do much from where I’m standing, emjay.”   
MJ swears and clenches a hand at her side. She rushes back to him, takes his face in her hands, and bites her lip. Her eyes dip down to the red blotch staining his shirt and gulps. Before Peter can grace with any reassurance, she exhales, looks back up at him, and shakes her head. A wobbly smile creeps to her face. “Hey, asshole.”  
Peter smiles back. “Aw. Here I thought we’d made some progress.” He can barely get through the sentence without spiralling into a coughing fit. When he’s regathered himself, he finds MJ’s face to be a woeful portrait. He watches as tears slip from her eyes; they’re cascading down her cheeks, streams of fear and remorse that run dry as they drip off her chin. “I’ll be okay”, he assures her. When the tears fail to cease and the hand keeping him upright holds firm, he sighs and squeezes the hand that’s holding his. “Trust me. I’ve taken worse beatings.” MJ remains at his side, so he pulls her closer. He points to his chest. “He’s still here”, Peter tells her. “You have to leave.”  
“I’m not leaving you in a fucking sewer with a fucking gut wound.” MJ bites her lip and takes in a breath. “God, what was I thinking?”  
“You were thinking that a creep had you at a wall and was gonna hurt you. You had to get away.” She still won’t move. “MJ. Otto’s smart, but Mr. Stark’s not dumb. He knows where we are, he’s just figuring out his game plan.”  
“His-his what?” MJ props him up against the wall and swipes a hand over her face. Shrugging her shirt off, she scoots close and, upon receiving a nod, pulls up his own. She presses her shirt against his wound and holds firm.  
“He found us at the lab”, Peter says, barely suppressing a wince. “I-I doubt he won’t find us here. I mean come on.” He chuckles weakly and twirls a hand through the air. “Sewer systems? Pretty obvious hideout, right-right behind abandoned warehouses and school basements.”  
“Well, I don’t care. I’m not leaving you here.” She glares at his shoulder. “How’s that holding up?”  
“Fine. Think it’s mostly shock. I should be fine. You-”  
“Damn it, Peter! I am not leaving you again!” MJ yanks down the sleeve of his shirt, exposing his wound to the harsh air. Peter hisses, and she looks up, her vision blurry with tears. “I-I can carry you”, she sniffles as she presses her palms against the bullet hole. “We just gotta stop this flow, and we’ll be gone.”  
“MJ.”  
“My dad used to work EMT, and I kinda remember some of what he told me. Just, could you just, Jesus fucking Christ Peter, hold the fuck still.”  
“MJ.” Peter coughs; blood dribbles down in chin and peppers the white of MJ’s undershirt. Her hands still pressed firmly against his shoulder, she yields in her frantic movements and closes her eyes. Peter reaches out, wraps a hand around the back of her neck, and pulls her close. “He’s still here”, he whispers, and his voice is riddled with struggle. “In a minute, I won’t be me, and you’ll be in danger. You gotta go. Please. Just go.” He presses their foreheads against one another and breathes. “I’ll be okay. I promise.”  
MJ opens her eyes and stares into his; they’re narrowed, and the color within them’s flickering between hazel and green. The muscles in his face are strained, and the hand behind her neck is clenching and unclenching. Before she can get in another word, Peter retracts the hand, only to reach out once more lift off her feet. Moments later, MJ’s soaring through the air and landing in the sewer stream.   
By the time she’s resurfaced, her body’s already begun barrelling through the stream; it’s only moments later when she’s carried further along and down another stream. MJ surges skyward, leaping from the water, only to be pushed down once more, and carried from sight.  
Peter tumbles back to the ground, coiling an arm around his middle, and hisses. Pain blossoms behind his eyes like crackling electricity. Otto settles over him like a coating of frost, and Peter cries out, curling into a ball as he fights for control.   
The already faint lights of the sewer are going dim, and Peter’s slipping, slipping further and further into the ground until he’s going, going  
Gone.


	11. Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. So short chapter and it happens to be the last one. Not as developed as I'd want but things have come up and I know I won't be as invested in this fic when everything clears up. Big thanks to everyone who's paid the story any amount of attention. It is officially my most popular fic on AO3, and it's been a nice journey. Sorry the ending's a bit lackluster and I just want everyone to know how much I appreciate the support you guys have been showing. Y'all are awesome.

When he awakes, it's to the sight of blinding, white lights. He lifts a weak hand to shield his eyes, only to wince at the raw pain centered in his gut. He groans, wraps an arm around himself, and heaves. Moments later, a pair of hands are settled over his shoulders, and a muddled voice is calling out to him. The pain settles, and his ears clear. He looks up, and it's Mr. Stark standing in front of him.

Or rather, sitting.

He's got a chair pulled up beside Peter's bed. He looks tired, with two days' worth of sleep crud clinging to his eyes. He drags the back of a hand over his eye and watches Peter.

Peter smiles, drags in a wheezy breath, and sits up as much as his wound will allow.

"Hey, Mr. Stark."  
Mr. Stark sighs, the tension visibly receding from his body; his shoulders fall, and his lips peak as he swipes a hand over his face. "Hey, Pete."

There's a faint beeping in the air. The room smells of bleach and something like cinnamon and jalapenos. Peter's limbs feel heavy, as if someone's taken a sandbag and emptied its contents into his veins. Keeping his eyes open is a struggle, but he does so anyway.

"So it worked", he asks in a hoarse voice. "The antidote?"  
"Yeah." Mr. Stark nods and smiles. "Eir says all traces of the Doc were eradicated just minutes after you took the drink. You'll be a little out of it for a few weeks, but you should be fine." Scooting his chair closer, Mr. Stark continues to watch him, his face radiant with relief and yet also tormented with concern. "How do you feel?"

"Like I ate a volcano", Peter murmurs, and his eyes threaten to flutter shut. He sits up further in his bed, yawns, and rolls his head to the side. "But better. Feels like forever since I've slept."

"Yeah", Mr. Stark chuckles. "I know what that feels like."

"Mm. Mr. Stark?"

"Yeah?"  
"I'm sorry about all of this."  
He frowns, his eyebrows burrowing, and cocks his head to the side. "Kid", he says in a soft voice. "This wasn't your fault."  
"No, no, I'm not-" He attempts to sit up, hisses, and falls against the back of his bed; pressing a hand to his bandaged abdomen, Peter slowly rises up until he's level with Mr. Stark. "I know it wasn't", he says through several jagged breaths. "I just-there were moments, you know? When I should have asked for help and didn't. And I know I've been kinda AWOLing it these past few months and...if I'd've just talked to someone or stopped pretending that things were all right-"  
"Peter." Mr. Stark's eyebrows furrow, and he reaches out to place a hand over his. "What you're talking about? That's shit that most normal, grownass adults take their whole lives trying to figure out. Hell, I'm pushing fifty, and I'm only now just getting it. And that's only been through experience. It's not fair to expect anyone, let alone a teen with his own issues, to think about the safety of the world." He leans over, his elbows resting against the bed, and wills Peter to hold his gaze. "You listening to me?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm listening." Peter shifts his weight to the other side of his body and exhales. He is listening, and, truthfully, he's putting some thought into his words. He's cataloging it with his conversations with Aunt May and MJ. At the moment, he can't fully accept them as they are, but he thinks, and he hopes, that maybe one day he will. He looks up at Mr. Stark, then flicks his eyes to the door. "Mr. Stark?"  
"They're waiting on the other end", he says with a smile. With that, he rises from his seat, gives Peter's shoulder a pat, then walks to the door. Before he leaves, he looks back and nods. Then he's turning the handle, and Aunt May's rushing into the room.

When she sees Peter's open eyes, she turns to Mr. Stark and stares. He waves, then leaves, the door softly clicking behind him.

Peter smiles. "Hey, Aunt May."

Aunt May crouches beside his bed she presses her palm against his cheek and shakes her head. "You're gonna give me a heart attack one of these days", she tells him, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone.

"I'm sorry."  
"Mm, none of that. You just focus on getting better."  
"I will. And I am", Peter says, forcing his lips into a smile. At the relief that blossoms across Aunt May's at this, he finds the expression coming more naturally. "I'll be home soon. I promise."  
She chuckles and considers him with fond eyes. "When you're done with recovery and safe and at home, you and me are gonna have a long talk."  
Peter closes his eyes in a wince. "That's fair."  
"You're damn right it is." She leans over then, pressing a kiss to his cheek. When she pulls away, her eyes are bright and devious.

Peter raises his eyebrows.

"Your friends are here", Aunt May tells him. "MJ made me promise to give her first dibs."

"MJ's here?"

She gives him a knowing smile. She traces her fingers underneath his chin, then stands. "You gonna be okay?"

Is he? How long has he and everyone else been asking that question? This past month alone's been absolute hell, and the year preceding hadn't fared much better. But he's resting in Mr. Stark's hospital wing post possession with what could have a been a fatal gut wound, and he's finally able to say that no, he isn't okay.

And because of that, he has hope that one day, he will be.

"I'll let you know", Peter says.

Then she's gone, and it's MJ sitting in that chair at his bed. She's got her hair pulled back in a ponytail, a few wayward curls dangling between her eyes. She keeps brushing them aside, but they keep coming back. Eventually, she lets them stay as them is, instead turning her attention to her hands folded tightly in her lap.

Peter dances his fingers in his bed sheets, then looks over to her. "I'm finally taller than you."

MJ looks up from her lap. She looks at the height difference between them, then presses a button on the bed that lowers it to her height. "I don't think so", she says, propping her elbows up on the bed. Peter grunts, reaches over, and tucks her stray curls behind her ear. MJ smiles and presses her knuckle into her cheek.

"How's the gang", Peter asks, rubbing at his shoulder.

"Decent. Well, kinda. Turns out, that lab was crawling with spiders. One of them bit the shit out of Cindy." Peter shrinks with guilt, and she's quick to ease his worries. "Come on. We'd already had plans to go there. She was gonna get bit even if you hadn't been there."

He presses harder against his shoulder and makes a noise in his throat. "She okay?"

"Yeah", she says, and the skin above her eyes is heavy with wrinkles. "I mean, she was pretty sick for a bit, but I think it's mostly cleared up." She smirks cheekily and wriggles her eyebrows. "Think you could handle it if there was another Spider swinging around these parts?"

Peter rolls his eyes and swats at her; turning onto his side with a calculated slowness, he then looks up at her and stares.

"MJ?"

MJ blinks. "Yeah?"

"When I'm better...you wanna maybe...get a pizza?"

MJ's eyes widen; she reaches for her hair, frowning when she finds it contained in its ponytail. She closes her eyes, tilts her head, and breathes. When she opens her eyes again, they're nervous and unsettled, darting about the room like white rabbits. She pulls her lips back into a simple, hopeful smile and lifts her shoulder in a shrug. "How about spaghetti and meatballs?"

Peter smiles, too, and he's suddenly finds himself in her arms. After the initial shock passes, he wraps his arms around her and nuzzles his face into the crook of her neck. "I like the way you think."


End file.
